THE 


YOUNG    MAN'S 


OFFERING. 


COMPRISING 


PROSE  AND  POETICAL  WRITINGS 


MOST  EMINENT   AUTHORS, 


I  LLUSTR ATED. 


BOSTON: 
PHILLIPS   &   SAMPSON, 

110  Washington   Street. 

1848. 


Stack 
Annex 

fs? 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


IT  is  believed  by  the  proprietors  of  this  volume  of  the 
"  Young  Man's  Offering,"  that  a  work  of  the  general 
character  of  this  has  long  been  wanted,  as  a  useful  and 
entertaining  "Gift  Book"  to  young  men  —  a  book  that 
should  be  what  its  title  indicates,  a  suitable  and  acceptable 
Offering  to  Young  Men. 

In  looking  over  the  various  books  addressed  to  them,  it 
was  thought  sufficient  "  advice  "  had  already  been  given ; 
and  accordingly  a  different  plan  has  been  adopted  in  get- 
ting up  this  work.  The  Tales  and  Essays  it  contains 
have  been  selected,  with  great  care,  by  one  competent  to 
the  task,  and  by  an  attentive  perusal  of  them  it  is  hoped 
the  reader's  sensibilities  to  the  pure  and  good  may  be 
quickened.  If  this  end  is  attained  in  one  instance  only  — 
if  by  the  pictures  of  life  it  portrays  it  shall  instruct  while 
it  amuses  —  its  publishers  will  feel  that  it  has  not  been 
issued  in  vain. 

Boston,  March,  1848. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

Golden  Age, 7 

Youth  and  Age, 8 

The  Dean  of  Santiago, 9 

A  Country  Lodging, 17 

Ahmed  the  Cobbler, 31 

Rouge  et  Noir, 54 

The  Common  Lot, 69 

Hope, 70 

Forgive  and  Forget, 72 

The  Bitter  Wedding, 72 

The  Rustic  Wreath, 85 

The  Merchant's  Daughter, 92 

Lorely, Ill 

Dream-Children, 125 

John  Brown, 130 

Little  Rachel, 141 

Ebony  and  Topaz, 146 

The  Three  Advices, 162 

The  City  of  the  Demons, 169 

Labor, 179 

The  Four  Eras, 161 

The  Past, 182 

Discovery  and  Conquest  of  America, 183 

The  Soldier's  Wife, 185 


VI  CONTENTS. 

The  Lost  Child, 19°0 

The  Lying  Servant. 196 

Renstern, 200 

A  Vindication  of  Authors, 212 

Courtship  and  Marriage, 225 

The  Play  at  Venice, 231 

The  Son  and  Heir, 238 

A  Scene  on  the  Pont  Neuf, 251 

Lacy  de  Vere, 255 

Calum  Dhu, 271 

•Hannah, 279 

The  Goldsmith  of  Padua, 285 

Master  and  Man, 296 

The  Venetian  Girl, 303 

Cousin  Mary, 310 


THE 

YOUNG  MAN'S  OFFERING 


GOLDEN   AGE. 

THE  golden  age  was  first,  when  man,  yet  new, 
No  rule  but  uncorrupted  reason  knew, 
And,  with  a  native  bent,  did  good  pursue. 
Unforced  by  punishment,  unawed  by  fear, 
His  words  were  simple,  and  his  soul  sincere; 
Needless  was  written  law,  where  none  oppressed ; 
The  law  of  man  was  written  on  his  breast : 
No  suppliant  crowds  before  the  judge  appeared, 
No  court  erected  yet,  nor  cause  was  heard, 
But  all  was  safe  :  for  conscience  was  their  guard. 
The  mountain  trees  in  distant  prospect  please, 
Ere  yet  the  pine  descended  to  the  seas  ; 
Ere  sails  were  spread  new  oceans  to  explore, 
And  happy  mortals,  unconcerned  for  more, 
Confined  their  wishes  to  their  native  shore. 
No  walls  were  yet,  nor  fence,  nor  moat,  nor  mound, 
Nor  drum  was  heard,  nor  trumpet's  angry  sound, 
Nor  swords  were  forged ;  but,  void  of  care  and  crime, 
The  soft  creation  slept  away  their  time. 
The  teeming  earth,  yet  guiltless  of  the  plough, 
And  unprovoked,  did  fruitful  stores  allow : 


8  YOUTH    AND    AGE. 

Content  with  food  which  Nature  freely  bred, 
On  wildlings  and  on  strawberries  they  fed  ; 
Cornels  and  brambleberries  gave  the  rest, 
And  falling  acorns  furnished  out  a  feast. 
The  flowers  unsown,  in  fields  and  meadows  reigned ; 
And  western  winds  immortal  spring  maintained. 
In  following  years  the  bearded  corn  ensued 
From  earth  unasked,  nor  was  that  earth  renewed. 
From  veins  of  valleys  milk  and  nectar  broke, 
And  honey  sweating  through  the  pores  of  oak. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

AH  me  !  alike  o'er  youth  and  age  I  sigh, 
Impending  age,  and  youth  that  hastens  by ; 
Swift  as  a  thought  the  flowing  moments  roll, 
Swift  as  a  racer  speeds  to  reach  the  goal. 
How  rich,  how  happy  the  contented  guest, 
Who  leaves  the  banquet  soon,  and  sinks  to  rest. 
Damps  chill  my  brow,  my  pulses  fluttering  beat, 
Whene'er  the  vigorous  pride  of  youth  I  meet 
Pleasant,  and  lovely ;  hopeful  to  the  view 
As  golden  visions,  and  as  transient  too  : 
But  ah  !  no  terrors  stop,  nor  vows,  nor  tears, 
Life's  mournful  evening,  and  the  gloom  of  years. 


THE   DEAN   OF  SANTIAGO. 

IT  was  but  a  short  hour  before  noon,  when  the  Dean  of 
Santiago  alighted  from  his  mule  at  the  door  of  Bon  Julian, 
the  celebrated  magician  of  Toledo.  The  house,  accord- 
ing to  old  tradition,  stood  on  the  brink  of  the  perpendicu- 
lar rock,  which,  now  crowned  with  the  Alcazar,  rises  to 
a  fearful  height  over  the  Tagus.  A  maid  of  Moorish 
blood  led  the  dean  to  a  retired  apartment,  where  Don 
Julian  was  reading.  The  natural  politeness  of  a  Castilian 
had  rather  been  improved  than  impaired  by  the  studies  of 
the  Toledan  sage,  who  exhibited  nothing,  either  in  his 
dress  or  person,  that  might  induce  a  suspicion  of  his  deal- 
ing with  the  mysterious  powers  of  darkness.  "  I  heartily 
greet  your  reverence,"  said  Don  Julian  to  the  dean,  "  and 
feel  highly  honored  by  this  visit.  Whatever  be  the  object 
of  it,  let  me  beg  you  will  defer  stating  it  till  I  have  made 
you  quite  at  home  in  this  house.  I  hear  my  housekeeper 
making  ready  the  noonday  meal.  That  maid,  sir,  will 
show  you  the  room  which  has  been  prepared  for  you ;  and 
when  you  have  brushed  off  the  dust  of  the  journey,  you 
shall  find  a  canonical  capon  steaming  hot  upon  the  board." 
The  dinner,  which  soon  followed,  was  just  what  a  pamper- 
ed Spanish  canon  would  wish  it — abundant,  nutritive,  and 
delicate.  "  No,  no,"  said  Don  Julian,  when  the  soup  and  a 
bumper  of  Tinto  had  recruited  the  dean's  spirits,  and  he 


10  THE    DEAN    OF    SANTIAGO. 

saw  him  making  an  attempt  to  break  the  object  of  his  visit 
— "  no  business,  please  your  reverence,  while  at  dinner. 
Let  us  enjoy  our  meal  at  present ;  and  when  we  have  dis- 
cussed the  Olla,  the  capon,  and  a  bottle  of  Yepes,  it  will 
be  time  enough  to  turn  to  the  cares  of  life."  The  ecclesi- 
astic's full  face  had  never  beamed  with  more  glee,  at  the 
collation  on  Christmas  eve,  when,  by  the  indulgence  of  the 
churc  h,  the  fast  is  broken  at  sunset,  instead  of  continuing 
through  the  night,  than  it  did  now  under  the  influence  of 
Don  Julian's  good  humor  and  heart-cheering  wine.  Still 
it  was  evident  that  some  vehement  and  ungovernable  wish 
had  taken  possession  of  his  mind,  breaking  out  now  and 
then  in  some  hurried  motion,  some  gulping  up  of  a  full 
glass  of  wine  without  stopping  to  relish  the  flavor,  and 
fifty  other  symptoms  of  absence  and  impatience,  which,  at 
such  a  distance  from  the  cathedral,  could  not  be  attributed 
to  the  afternoon  bell.  The  time  came,  at  length,  of  rising 
from  table;  and  in  spite  of  Don  Julian's  pressing  request 
to  have  another  bottle,  the  dean,  with  a  certain  dignity 
of  manner,  led  his  good-natured  host  to  the  recess  of  an 
oriel  window,  looking  upon  the  river.  "  Allow  me,  dear 
Don  Julian,"  he  said,  "  to  open  my  heart  to  you ;  for  even 
your  hospitality  must  fail  to  make  me  completely  happy 
till  I  have  obtained  the  boon  which  I  came  to  ask.  I 
know  that  no  man  ever  possessed  greater  power  than  you 
over  the  invisible  agents  of  the  universe.  I  die  to  be- 
come an  adept  in  that  wonderful  science  ;  and  if  you  will 
receive  me  for  your  pupil,  there  is  nothing  I  should  think 
of  sufficient  worth  to  repay  your  friendship." — "  Good 
sir,"  replied  Don  Julian,  "  I  should  be  extremely  loath  to 
offend  you ;  but  permit  me  to  say,  that,  in  spite  of  the 
knowledge  of  causes  and  effects  which  I  have  acquired, 
all  that  my  experience  teaches  me  of  the  heart  of  man  is 
not  only  vague  and  indistinct,  but  for  the  most  part  un- 
favorable. I  only  guess ;  I  cannot  read  their  thoughts,  nor 
pry  into  the  recesses  of  their  minds.  As  for  yourself,  I 


THE    DEAN    OF    SANTIAGO.  11 

am  sure  you  are  a  rising  man,  and  likely  to  obtain  the  first 
dignities  of  the  church.  But  whether,  when  you  find 
yourself  in  places  of  high  honor  and  patronage,  you  will 
remember  the  humble  personage  of  whom  you  now  ask  a 
hazardous  and  important  service,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to 
ascertain."  "  Nay,  nay,"  exclaimed  the  dean ;  "  but  I 
know  myself,  if  you  do  not,  Don  Julian.  Generosity  and 
friendship  (since  you  force  me  to  speak  in  my  own  praise) 
have  been  the  delight  of  my  soul  even  from  childhood. 
Doubt  not,  my  dear  friend  (for  by  that  name  I  wish  you, 
would  allow  me  to  call  you),  doubt  not,  from  this  moment, 
to  command  my  services.  Whatever  interest  I  may  pos- 
sess, it  will  be  my  highest  gratification  to  see  it  redound 
in  favor  of  you  and  yours."  "My  hearty  thanks  for  all, 
worthy  sir,"  said  Don  Julian ;  "  but  let  us  now  proceed  to 
business ;  the  sun  is  set,  and,  if  you  please,  we  will  retire 
to  my  private  study." 

Lights  being  called  for,  Don  Julian  led  the  way  to  the 
lower  part  of  the  house ;  and  dismissing  the  Moorish 
maid  near  a  small  door,  of  which  he  held  the  key  in  his 
hand,  desired  her  to  get  two  partridges  for  supper,  but  not 
to  dress  them  till  he  should  order  it :  then  unlocking  the 
door,  he  began  to  descend  by  a  winding  stair-case.  The 
dean  followed  with  a  certain  degree  of  trepidation,  which 
the  length  of  the  stairs  greatly  tended  to  increase ;  for,  to 
all  appearance,  they  reached  below  the  bed  of  the  Tagus. 
At  this  depth  a  comfortable,  neat  room  was  found;  the 
walls  completely  covered  with  shelves,  where  Don  Julian 
kept  his  works  on  magic ;  globes,  planispheres,  and  strange 
drawings,  occupied  the  top  of  the  book-cases.  Fresh  air 
was  admitted,  though  it  would  be  difficult  to  guess  by 
what  means,  since  the  sound  of  gliding  water,  such  as  is 
heard  at  the  lower  part  of  a  ship  when  sailing  with  a  gen- 
tle breeze,  indicated  but  a  thin  partition  between  the  sub- 
terraneous cabinet  and  the  river.  "  Here,  then,"  said 
Don  Julian,  offering  a  chair  to  the  dean,  and  drawing 


12  THE    DEAN    OF    SANTIAGO. 

another  for  himself  towards  a  small,  round  table,  "  we 
have  only  to  choose  among  the  elementary  works  of  the 
science  for  which  you  long.  Suppose  we  begin  to  read 
this  small  volume."  The  volume  was  laid  on  the  table, 
and  opened  at  the  first  page,  containing  circles,  concen- 
tric and  eccentric,  triangles  with  unintelligible  characters, 
and  the  well-known  signs  of  the  planets.  "  This,"  said 
Don  Julian,  "  is  the  alphabet  of  the  whole  science.  Her- 
mes, called  Trismegistus "  The  sound  of  a  small 

bell  within  the  chamber,  made  the  dean  almost  leap  out 
of  his  chair.  "  Be  not  alarmed,"  said  Don  Julian  ;  "  it 
is  the  bell  by  which  my  servants  let  me  know  that  they 
want  to  speak  to  me."  Saying  thus,  he  pulled  a  silk 
string,  and  soon  after  a  servant  appeared  with  a  packet  of 
letters.  It  was  addressed  to  the  dean.  A  courier  had 
closely  followed  him  on  the  road,  and  was  that  moment 
arrived  at  Toledo.  "Good  Heavens!"  exclaimed  the 
dean,  having  read  the  contents  of  the  letters ;  "  my  great 
uncle,  the  archbishop  of  Santiago,  is  dangerously  ill. 
This  is,  however,  what  the  secretary  says,  from  his  lord- 
ship's dictation.  But  here  is  another  letter  from  the  arch- 
deacon of  the  diocese,  who  assures  me  that  the  old  man 
was  not  expected  to  live.  I  can  hardly  repeat  what  he 
adds.  Poor  dear  uncle  !  may  Heaven  lengthen  his  days  ! 
The  chapter  seem  to  have  turned  their  eyes  towards  me, 
and — pugh  !  it  cannot  be — but  the  electors,  according  to 
the  archdeacon,  are  quite  decided  in  my  favor."  "Well," 
said  Don  Julian,  "  all  I  regret  is  the  interruption  of  our 
studies ;  but  I  doubt  not  that  you  will  soon  wear  the  mitre. 
In  the  mean  time,  I  would  advise  you  to  pretend  that  ill- 
ness does  not  allow  you  to  return  directly.  A  few  days 
will  surely  give  a  decided  turn  to  the  whole  affair  ;  and, 
at  all  events,  your  absence,  in  case  of  an  election,  will  be 


THE    DEAN    OF    SANTIAGO.  13 

construed  into  modesty.  Write,  therefore,  your  des- 
patches, my  dear  sir,  and  we  will  prosecute  our  studies  at 
another  time." 

Two  days  had  elapsed  since  the  arrival  of  the  messen- 
ger, when  the  verger  of  the  church  of  Santiago,  attended 
by  servants  in  splendid  liveries,  alighted  at  Don  Julian's 
door  with  letters  for  the  dean.  The  old  prelate  was  dead, 
and  his  nephew  had  been  elected  to  the  see,  by  the  unani- 
mous vote  of  the  chapter.  The  elected  dignitary  seemed 
overcome  by  contending  feelings;  but,  having  wiped  away 
some  decent  tears,  he  assumed  an  air  of  gravity,  which 
almost  touched  on  superciliousness.  Don  Julian  address- 
ed his  congratulations,  and  was  the  first  to  kiss  the  new 
archbishop's  hand.  "  I  hope,"  he  added,  "  I  may  also 
congratulate  my  son,  the  young  man  who  is  now  at  the 
university  of  Paris ;  for  I  flatter  myself  your  lordship  will 
give  him  the  deanery,  which  is  vacant  by  your  promo- 
tion." "  My  worthy  friend,  Don  Julian,"  replied  the 
archbishop  elect,  "  my  obligations  to  you  I  can  never 
sufficiently  repay.  You  have  heard  my  character ;  I  hold 
a  friend  as  another  self.  But  why  would  you  take  the  lad 
away  from  his  studies  1  An  archbishop  of  Santiago  can- 
not want  preferment  at  any  time.  Follow  me  to  my  dio- 
cese. I  will  not  for  all  the  mitres  in  Christendom  forego 
the  benefit  of  your  instruction.  The  deanery,  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  must  be  given  to.  my  uncle,  my  father's 
own  brother,  who  has  had  but  a  small  living  for  many 
years ;  he  is  much  liked  in  Santiago,  and  I  should  lose  my 
character  if,  to  place  such  a  young  man  as  your  son 
at  the  head  of  the  chapter,  I  neglected  an  exemplary 
priest,  so  nearly  related  to  me."  "Just  as  you  please, 
my  lord,"  said  Don  Julian  ;  and  began  to  prepare  for  the 
journey. 

The  acclamations  which  greeted  the  new  archbishop 
on  his  arrival  at  the  capital  of  Galicia  were,  not  long 
after,  succeeded  by  a  universal  regret  at  his  translation  to 


14  THE    DEAN    OF    SANTIAGO. 

the  see  of  the  recently-conquered  town  of  Seville.  "  I 
will  not  leave  you  behind,"  said  the  archbishop  to  Don 
Julian,  who,  with  more  timidity  than  he  showed  at  Toledo, 
approached  to  kiss  the  sacred  ring  in  the  archbishop's 
right  hand,  and  to  offer  his  humble  congratulations;  "  but 
do  not  fret  about  your  son.  He  is  too  young.  I  have  my 
mother's  relations  to  provide  for ;  but  Seville  is  a  rich  see ; 
the  blessed  King  Ferdinand,  who  rescued  it  from  the 
Moors,  endowed  its  church  so  as  to  make  it  rival  the  first 
cathedrals  in  Christendom.  Do  but  follow  me,  and  all  will 
be  well  in  the  end."  Don  Julian  bowed  with  a  suppress- 
ed sigh,  and  was  soon  after  on  the  banks  of  the  Guadal- 
quivir, in  the  suite  of  the  new  archbishop. 

Scarcely  had  Don  Julian's  pupil  been  at  Seville  one 
year,  when  his  far-extended  fame  moved  the  pope  to  send 
him  a  cardinal's  hat,  desiring  his  presence  at  the  court  of 
Rome.  The  crowd  of  visitors  who  came  to  congratulate 
the  prelate,  kept  Don  Julian  away  for  many  days.  He  at 
length  obtained  a  private  audience,  and,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  entreated  his  eminence  not  to  oblige  him  to  quit 
Spain.  "I  am  growing  old,  my  lord,"  he  said  :  "  I  quitted 
my  house  at  Toledo  only  for  your  sake,  and  in  hopes  of 
raising  my  son  to  some  place  of  honor  and  emolument  in 
the  church ;  I  even  gave  up  my  favorite  studies,  except  as 
far  as  they  were  of  service  to  your  eminence.  My  son — " 
"No  more  of  that,  if  you  please,  Don  Julian,"  interrupted 
the  cardinal.  "Follow  me  you  must;  who  can  tell  what 
may  happen  at  Rome?  The  pope  is  old,  you  know. ,  But 
do  not  tease  me  about  preferment.  A  public  man  has 
duties  of  a  description  which  those  in  the  lower  ranks  of 
life  cannot  either  weigh  or  comprehend.  I  confess  I  am 
under  obligations  to  you,  and  feel  quite  disposed  to  reward 
your  services;  yet  I  must  not  have  my  creditors  knocking 


THE    DEAN    OF    SANTIAGO.  15 

every  day  at  my  door ;  you  understand,  Don  Julian.  In 
a  week  we  set  out  for  Rome." 

With  such  a  strong  tide  of  good  fortune  as  had  hitherto 
buoyed  up  Don  Julian's  pupil,  the  reader  cannot  be  sur- 
prised to  find  him,  in  a  short  time,  wearing  the  papal 
crown.  He  was  now  arrived  at  the  highest  place  of  honor 
on  earth ;  but  in  the  bustle  of  the  election  and  subsequent 
coronation,  the  man  to  whose  wonderful  science  he  owed 
this  rapid  ascent,  had  completely  slipped  off  his  memory. 
Fatigued  with  the  exhibition  of  himself  through  the  streets 
of  Rome,  which  he  had  been  obliged  to  make  in  a  sol- 
emn procession,  the  new  pope  sat  alone  in  one  of  the 
chambers  of  the  Vatican.  It  was  early  in  the  night.  By 
the  light  of  two  wax  tapers,  which  scarcely  illuminated  the 
farthest  end  of  the  grand  saloon,  his  holiness  was  enjoy- 
ing that  reverie  of  mixed  pain  and  pleasure  which  follows 
the  complete  attainment  of  ardent  wishes,  when  Don 
Julian  advanced,  in  visible  perturbation,  conscious  of  the 
intrusion  on  which  he  ventured.  "  Holy  father,"  ex- 
claimed the  old  man,  and  cast  himself  at  his  pupil's  feet ; 
"  holy  father,  in  pity  to  these  gray  hairs,  do  not  consign 
an  old  servant — might  I  not  say  an  old  friend  1 — to  utter 
neglect  and  forgetfulness.  My  son — "  "  By  saint  Peter!  " 
ejaculated  his  holiness,  rising  from  the  chair,  "  your  inso- 
lence shall  be  checked. —  You  my  friend !  A  magician  the 
friend  of  Heaven's  vicegerent! — Away,  wretched  man! 
When  I  pretended  to  learn  of  thee,  it  was  only  to  sound 
the  abyss  of  crime  into  which  thou  hadst  plunged ;  I  did 
it  with  a  view  of  bringing  thee  to  condign  punishment. 
Yet,  in  compassion  to  thy  age,  I  will  not  make  an  exam- 
ple of  thee,  provided  thou  avoidest  my  eyes.  Hide  thy 
crime  and  shame  where  thou  canst.  This  moment  thou 
must  quit  the  palace,  or  the  next  closes  the  gates  of  the 
inquisition  upon  thee." 

Trembling,  and  his  wrinkled  face  bedewed  with  tears, 


16  THE    DEAN    OF    SANTIAGO. 

Don  Julian  begged  to  be  allowed  but  one  word  more.  "  I 
am  very  poor,  holy  father,"  said  he :  "  trusting  in  your 
patronage,  I  relinquished  rriy  all,  and  have  not  left  where- 
with to  pay  my  journey."  "  Away,  I  say,"  answered  the 
pope ;  "  if  my  excessive  bounty  has  made  you  neglect 
your  patrimony,  I  will  no  further  encourage  your  waste  and 
improvidence.  Poverty  is  but  a  slight  punishment  for 
your  crimes."  "But,  father,"  rejoined  Don  Julian,  "my 
wants  are  instant;  I  am  hungry:  give  me  but  a  trifle  to 
procure  a  supper  to-night.  To-morrow  I  shall  beg  my 
way  out  of  Rome."  "  Heaven  forbid,"  said  the  pope, 
"  that  I  should  be  guilty  of  feeding  the  ally  of  the  prince 
of  darkness.  Away,  away  from  my  presence,  or  I  in- 
stantly call  for  the  guard."  "  Well,  then,"  replied  Don 
Julian,  rising  from  the  ground,  and  looking  on  the  pope 
with  a  boldness  which  began  to  throw  his  holiness  into  a 
paroxysm  of  rage,  "  if  I  am  to  starve  at  Rome,  I  had  bet- 
ter return  to  the  supper  which  I  ordered  at  Toledo." 
Thus  saying,  he  rang  a  gold  bell  which  stood  on  a  table 
next  the  pope.  The  door  opened  without  delay,  and  the 
Moorish  servant  came  in.  The  pope  looked  round,  and 
found  himself  in  the  subterraneous  study  under  the  Tagus. 
"  Desire  the  cook,"  said  Don  Julian  to  the  maid,  "  to  put 
but  one  partridge  to  roast ;  for  I  will  not  throw  away  the 
other  on  the  Dean  of  Santiago." 


A    COUNTRY    LODGING.  17 


A   COUNTRY   LODGING. 

ON  my  way  back  to  town,  the  other  evening,  from  a 
visit,  I  had  the  misfortune,  at  the  turning  of  a  road,  not  to 
see  a  projecting  gateway,  till  I  came  too  near  it.  I  leaped 
the  ditch  that  ran  by,  but  my  horse  went  too  close  to  the 
side-post ;  and  my  leg  was  so  hurt,  that  I  was  obliged  to 
limp  into  a  cottage,  and  have  been  laid  up  ever  since. 
The  doctor  tells  me  I  am  to  have  three  or  four  weeks  of  it, 
perhaps  more. 

As  soon  as  I  found  myself  fixed,  I  looked  about  me  to 
see  what  consolations  I  could  get  in  my  new  abode.  The 
place  was  quiet.  That  was  one  thing.  It  was  also  clean, 
and  had  a  decent  looking  hostess.  Those  were  two  more. 
Thirdly,  I  heard  the  wind  in  the  trees.  This  was  much. 
"  You  have  trees  opposite  the  window?"  "  Yes,  sir,  some 
fine  elms.  You  will  hear  the  birds  of  a  morning."  "  And 
you  have  poultry,  to  take  care  of  my  fever  with  ?  and  eggs 
and  bacon,  when  I  get  better  1  and  a  garden  and  a  pad- 
dock, when  I  walk  again,  eh?  and  capital  milk,  and  a  milk- 
maid, whom  it's  a  sight  to  see  carrying  it  over  the  field." 
"Why,  sir,"  said  my  hostess,  good-hufnoredly  but  gravely, 
"as  to  the  milk-maid,  I  can  say  nothing;  but  we  have 
capital  milk  at  Pouldon,  and  good  eggs  and  bacon,  and 
paddocks  in  plenty,  and  every  thing  else  that  horse  or  man 
can  desire,  in  an  honest  way." 

The  curtains  were  very  neat  and  white,  the  rest  of  the 
furniture  corresponding.  There  was  a  small  couch,  and  a 
long-backed  arm-chair,  looking  as  if  it  was  made  for  me. 
"  That  settee,"  thought  I,  "  I  shall  move  into  that  other 
part  of  the  room  : — it  will  be  snugger,  and  more  away  from 
the  door.  The  arm-chair  and  the  table  shall  go  near  the 
window,  when  I  can  sit  up  ;  so  that  I  may  have  the  trees 
at  the  corner  of  my  eye,  as  I  am  writing."  The  table,  a 
small  mahogany  one,  was  very  good,  and  reflected  the  two 
2* 


18  A    COUNTRY    LODGING. 

candles  very  prettily,  but  it  looked  bald.     There  were  no 
books  on  it. 

"Pray,  Mrs.  Wilson,  have  you  any  books?  " 
"  Oh,  plenty  of  books.     But  won't  you  be  afraid  to  study, 
sir,  with  that  leg?" 

"  I'll  study  without  it,  if  you  can  undo  it  for  me." 
"  Dear  me  !  sir,  but  won't  it  make  you  feverish?  " 
"  Yes,  unless  I  can  read  all  the  while.  I  must  study 
philosophy,  Mrs.  Wilson,  in  order  to  bear  it :  so,  if  you 
have  any  novels  or  comedies — "  "  Why,  for  novels  or 
comedies,  sir,  I  can't  say.  But  I'll  show  you  what  there  is. 
When  our  lady  was  alive, — rest  her  soul ! — eight  months 
ago,  the  house  was  nothing  but  books.  I  dare  say  she  had 
a  matter  of  a  hundred.  But  I've  a  good  set  too,  below  ; 
some  of  my  poor  dear  husband's,  and  some  of  my  own." 
"  I  see,"  said  I,  as  she  left  the  room,  "  that  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  send  to  the  clergyman ;  and  that's  a  forlorn 
hope.  If  there's  a  philosopher  in  the  village, — some  Jac- 
obinical carpenter  or  shoemaker, — there  will  be  another 
chance.  At  all  events,  I  shall  behave  in  the  most  impu- 
dent manner,  and  send  all  round.  '  Necessitas  non  habet 
LEGS,'  as  Peter  Pindar  says.  This  is  the  worst  of  books. 
A  habit  of  reading  is  like  a  habit  of  drinking.  You  can- 
not do  without  it,  especially  under  misfortune.  I  wonder 
whether  I  could  leave  off  reading,  beginning  with  a  para- 
graph less  a  day  ?  " 

Mrs.  Wilson  returned  with  an  arm  full.  "  This,  sir," 
said  she,  giving  me  the  top  one,  "our  lady  left  me  for  a 
keep-sake."  It  was  Mrs.  Chapone's  Essays.  "  Pray," 
said  I,  "  Mrs.  Wilson,  who  was  the  lady  whom  you  desig- 
nate as  the  Roman  Catholics  do  the  Virgin?  Who  was 
Our  lady  ?  "  Mrs.  Wilson  looked  very  grave,  but  I 
thought  there  was  a  smile  lurking  under  her  gravity  in 
spite  of  her.  "Miss  V.,  sir,  was  no  Roman:  and  as  to 
the  Virgin,  by  which  I  suppose,  sir,  you  mean  the — but 
however — oh,  she  was  an  excellent  woman,  sir ;  her  mother 


A    COUNTRY    LODGING.  19 

Mas  a  friend  of  the  great  Mr.  Samuel  Richardson."  "  Oh 
ho!"  thought  I,  looking  over  the  books,  "then  we  shall 
have  Pamela." — There  was  the  Farrier's  Guide,  some 
Treatises  on  Timber  and  the  Cultivation  of  Wood  (my 
hostess  was  a  carpenter's  widow),  Jachin  and  Boaz  (which 
she  called  a  strange,  fantastic  book),  Mrs.  Glasse's  Cook- 
ery, Wesley's  Receipts,  an  old  Court  Calendar,  the  Whole 
Duty  of  Man,  nine  numbers  of  the  Calvinist's  Magazine, 
an  odd  volume  of  the  Newgate  Calendar,  the  Life  of  Colo- 
nel Gardiner,  and,  sure  as  fate,  at  the  bottom  of  the  heap, 
Pamela,  or  Virtue  Rewarded.  "  Virtue  Rewarded  !  " 
thought  I:  "I  hate  these  mercenary  virtues ;  these  bills 
brought  to  Heaven  for  payment ;  these  clinkings  of  cash 
in  the  white  pockets  of  conscience."  "  You  have  one 
novel,  at  any  rate,  Mrs.  Wilson."  "  Sure,  sir,  it  is  better 
than  a  novel.  Oh,  it  is  a  book  full  of  good  fortune." 
"  Of  good  fortune  !  What,  to  the  maid-servant  ?  "  "  To 
every  body  that  has  to  do  with  it.  Miss  V.  was  dubious 
like  which  of  the  cottages  to  live  in ;  and  she  fancied 
ours,  because  she  found  Pamela  and  Colonel  Gardiner  in 
the  corner-cupboard."  "  I  dare  say. — Now,  here,"  said  I, 
when  left  to  myself,  "  here  is  vanity  at  second  hand.  The 
old  lady  must  take  a  cottage  because  she  found  a  book  in 
it,  written  by  an  old  gentleman,  who  knew  the  old  lady 
her  mother.  And  what  a  book!"  With  all  my  admira- 
tion of  Richardson,  Pamela  had  ever  been  an  object  of 
my  dislike.  I  hated  her  little  canting  ways,  her  egotism 
eternally  protesting  humility,  and  her  readiness  to  make  a 
prize  of  the  man,  who,  finding  his  endeavors  vain  to  ruin 
her,  reconciled  her  virtue  and  vanity  together  by  proposing 
to  make  her  his  wife.  Pamela's  is  the  only  female  face  to 
which  I  think  I  could  ever  have  wished  to  give  a  good  box 
on  the  ear.  "  And  this,"  said  I,  "  was  the  old  maid's 
taste.  It  is  a  pity  she  was  not  a  servant-maid."  While 
[  was  thus  venting  my  spleen  against  a  harmless  old 
woman,  in  a  condition  of  life  which  I  had  always  treat- 


20  A    COUNTRY    LODGING. 

eel  with  respect,  and  was  beginning  to  regret  that  I  had 
got  into  "  methodistical "  lodgings,  my  hostess  comes 
hack  again.  As  I  did  not  seem  to  be  very  particu- 
larly satisfied  with  this  collection,  the  old  lady  went  out 
again,  and  presently  returned  with  three  more  books,  to 
wit,  Paradise  Lost,  Thomson's  Seasons,  and  a  volume 
containing  the  whole  of  the  Spectator  in  double  columns. 
"  Head  of  my  ancestors ! "  cried  I,  uttering  (but  inter- 
nally) a  Chinese  exclamation  :  "  here  thou  art  at  home 
again,  Harry  !  This  is  sense.  This  is  something  like. 
The  cottage  is  an  excellent  cottage,  and,  for  aught  I  know, 
had  the  honor  of  being  one  of  the  many  cottages  in  which 
my  great  grandfather's  friend  Sir  Richard  used  to  eschew 
the  visits  of  the  importunate." 

There  was  a  bed-room  as  neat  as  the  sitting-room,  and 
with  more  trees  at  the  window.  My  leg  was  very  painful, 
and  I  had  feverish  dreams.  However,  my  horseback  had 
made  me  nothing  the  worse  for  my  dinner,  and,  having 
taken  no  supper,  my  dreams,  though  disturbed,  were  not 
frightful.  I  dreamt  of  Pamela,  and  Dick  Honeycomb,  and 
my  ancestor  Nathaniel.  I  thought  that  my  landlady  was 
Mrs.  Harlowe,  and  that  Dick,  being  pressed  to  marry,  said 
he  would  not  have  his  cousin  Pamela,  but  Nell  Gwynn  ; 
which  the  serious  commonwealth  officer  approved,  "Be- 
cause," said  he,  "  of  the  other's  immoral  character." 

In  the  morning,  it  was  delightful  to  hear  the  sound  of 
the  birds.  There  is  something  exhilarating  in  the  singing 
of  birds,  analogous  to  the  brilliancy  of  sunshine.  My  leg 
was  now  worse,  but  not  bad  enough  to  hinder  me  from 
noticing  the  "  chancy  "  shepherds  and  shepherdesses  on 
the  mantel-piece,  or  those  others  on  the  colored  bed-cur- 
tain ;  loving  pairs  with  lambs,  repeated  in  the  same  group 
at  intervals  all  over  the  chintz,  as  if  the  beholder  had  a 
cut-glass  eye.  The  window  of  the  sitting-room  has  a  lit- 
tle white  curtain  on  a  rod.  This,  of  the  bed-room,  is  a 
p-oper  casement  with  diamond  panes ;  and  you  can  see 


A     COUNTRY    LODGING  21 

nothing  outside,  but  green  leaves.  However  ill  I  may  be, 
I  am  always  the  worse  for  lying  in  bed.  I  contrived  to 
get  up  and  remove  to  the  settee  in  the  other  room ;  at 
which  the  doctor,  when  he  came,  shook  his  head.  But  I 
did  very  well  with  the  settee.  It  was  brought  near  the 
window,  with  the  table ;  and  I  had  a  very  pretty  look-out. 
Opposite  the  window,  you  can  see  nothing  but  trees,  but 
sitting  on  the  left  side,  you  have  a  view  over  a  fine  meadow 
to  the  village  church,  which  is  embowered  in  elms.  There 
is  a  path  and  a  stile  to  the  meadow,  and  luxuriant  hedge- 
row trees.  I  was  as  well  pleased  with  my  situation  as  a 
man  well  could  be,  who  had  a  leg  perpetually  reminding 
him  of  its  existence  ;  but  Pouldon  is  at  a  good  distance 
from  town,  and  I  was  thinking  how  long  it  would  take  a 
messenger  to  fetch  me  some  books,  when  I  heard  a  shot 
from  a  fowling-piece.  I  recollected  the  month,  and  thought 
how  well  its  name  was  adapted  to  these  Septembrizers  of 
the  birds.  Looking  under  the  trees,  I  saw  a  stout  fellow, 
in  a  jacket  and  gaiters,  and  the  rest  of  the  costume  of  avi- 
cide,  picking  his  way  along  the  palings,  with  his  gun  re- 
prepared.  "Ay,"  said  I,  "  he  has  'shot,  as  he  is  used  to 
do,'  and  laid  up  some  poor  thing  with  a  broken  thigh. 
There  he  goes,  sneaking  along,  to  qualify  some  others  for 
the  hospital — and  they  have  none." 

I  threw  up  the  window,  to  baffle  his  next  shot  with  the 
noise.  He  turned  round.  It  was  Jack  Tomkins.  "  Hallo  ! 
my  boy,"  said  he ;  "  why,  where  in  the  world  have  you 
got  1 "  Jack,  who  is  a  man  of  fortune,  and  was  at  Trinity, 
though  the  uninitiated  would  not  suppose  it,  came  up  im- 
mediately to  the  door,  and  knocked.  Presently  he  came 
into  the  room,  grinning  and  breathing  like  an  ogre. 

"  My  dear  Honeycomb,"  said  he,  "  how  are  you?  An 
unexpected  pleasure,  eh  1  The  good  lady  tells  me  you 
have  hurt  yourself.  Something  about  a  horse.  What, 
Bayardo  the  spotless,  eh  ?  Well,  I  am  heartily  sorry  for  it, 
I  declare ;  for  now,  as  you  have  caught  me  with  my  Joe 


22  A    COUNTRY    LODGING. 

Manton,  I  suppose  I  am  to  be  had  up  for  fetching  down  a 
few  birds." 

"  Why,  Jack,  as  you  say,  I  have  caught  you  in  the  fact; 
and  I  wonder  at  a  fellow  of  your  sense  and  spirit,  that 
you're  not  above  cutting  up  a  parcel  of  tomtits." 

"  Grouse,  Harry,  grouse,  and  partridges,  and  pheasants, 
and  all  that.  Tomtits !  let  the  cockneys  try  to  cut  up  tom- 
tits." 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,  there's  a  good  deal  of  difference  be- 
tween breaking  the  legs  of  partridges  and  tomtits.  The 
partridge,  too,  is  a  fierce  bird,  and  can  defend  itself.  It's 
a  gallant  thing,  a  fight  with  a  partridge  !  " 

"  Eh  1  Nonsense.  Now  you  are  at  some  of  your 
banter.  But  it's  no  joke,  I  assure  you,  to  me,  having  a 
fine  morning's  sport.  You  can  read,  and  all  that;  but 
every  man  to  his  taste.  However,  I  can't  stop  at  present. 
Here's  Needle,  poor  fellow,  wants  to  be  off.  Glorious 
morning — never  saw  such  a  morning — but  I'll  come  back 
to  dinner,  if  you  like,  instead  of  going  to  the  Greyhound. 
I  gave  a  brace  of  partridges  just  now  to  the  good  woman : 
and  I  say,  Harry,  if  you  get  me  some  claret,  I'll  have  it 
out  with  you — I  will,  upon  my  soul — -Til  rub  up  my  logic, 
and  have  a  regular  spar." 

My  friend  Jack  returned  in  good  time,  and  had  his 
birds  well  dressed.  I  was  in  despair  about  the  claret,  till 
the  host  of  the  Greyhound  drew  it  out  from  a  store  which 
he  kept  against  the  month  of  September ;  and  Jack  being 
a  good-humored  fellow,  and  having  had  a  victorious  morn- 
ing, he  did  very  well.  Mrs.  Wilson  and  the  doctor  had 
equally  protested  against  my  having  company  to  dinner, 
being  afraid  of  the  noise,  and  the  temptation  to  eat ;  but  I 
promised  them  to  abstain,  and  that  I  would  talk  as  much 
as  possible  to  hinder  Jack  from  being  obstreperous ;  which 
they  thought  a  dangerous  remedy.  I  got  off  very  well,  by 
dint  of  talking  while  Jack  ate;  and  such  is  vanity,  that  I 
was  not  displeased  to  see  that  I  rose  greatly  in  my  hostess's 


A    COUNTRY    LODGING.  23 

opinion  by  my  defence  of  the  bird  creation.  It  was  curi- 
ous to  observe  how  Jack  shattered  her,  as  she  came  in 
and  out,  with  his  oaths  and  great  voice,  and  how  gratefully 
she  seemed  to  take  breath  and  substance  again  under  the 
Paradisaical  shelter  of  my  arguments.  But  I  believe  I 
startled  her,  too,  with  the  pictures  I  was  obliged  to  draw. 
This  is  the  worst  of  such  points  of  discussion.  You  are 
obliged  to  put  new  ideas  of  pain  and  trouble  into  innocent 
heads,  in  the  hope  of  saving  pain  and  trouble  itself.  But 
we  must  not  hesitate  for  this.  The  one  is  a  mere  notion 
compared  with  the  other.  It  is  soon  got  rid  of  or  set  aside 
by  minds  in  health  ;  and  the  unhealthy  ones  are  liable  to 
worse  deductions,  if  the  matter  is  not  fairly  laid  open. 

However,  wishing  to  let  Jack  have  his  ease  in  perfec- 
tion, as  far  as  he  could,  I  was  for  postponing  the  argument 
to  another  day,  and  seeing  him  relish  his  birds  and  claret 
in  peace.  But  the  more  he  drank,  the  less  he  would  hear 
of  it.  "  Besides,"  says  he,  "  I've  been  talking  about  it  to 
Bilson — you  know  Bilson,  the  Christ-Church  man, — and 
he's  been  putting  me  up  to  some  prime  good  arguments, 
'faith.  I  hope  I  sha'n't  forget  'em.  By  the  by,  I'll  tell 
you  a  good  joke  about.  Bilson — But  you  don't  eat  any 
thing.  What,  is  your  leg  so  bad  as  that  comes  to  1  You 
don't  pretend,  I  hope,  not  to  eat  partridge,  because  of  your 
love  of  the  birds?  " 

"No,  Jack;  but  I'd  rather  know  that  you  had  killed 
'em  than  Bilson,  because  you  are  a  jollier  hand ;  you  don't 
go  to  the  sport  with  such  reverend  sophistry." 

"  That's  famous.  Bilson,  to  be  sure, — But  stop,  don't 
let  me  forget  another  thing,  now  I  think  of  it.  Bilson 
says  you  eat  poultry.  What  do  you  say  to  that?  You  eat 
chicken. " 

"  I  am  not  sure  that  I  can  apologize  for  eating  grouse, 
except,  as  I  said  before,  when  you  kill  'em.  Evil  com- 
munications corrupt  good  platters.  I  can  only  say  that  no 
grouse  should  be  killed  for  me,  unless  a  perfect  Tomkins 
—  an  unerring  shot — had  the  bringing  of  them  down.  I 


A    COUNTRY    LODGING. 

could  give  up  poultry  too ;  but  death  is  common  to  all :  a 
fowl  is  soon  despatched ;  and  many  a  fowl  would  not  exist, 
if  death  for  the  dinner-table  were  not  part  of  his  charter. 
I  confess  I  should  not  like  to  keep  poultry.  There  is 
a  violation  of  fellowship  and  domesticity  in  killing  the 
sharers  of  our  homestead,  and  especially  in  keeping  them 
to  kill.  It  would  make  me  seem  like  an  ogre.  But  this 
is  one  sentiment :  that  violated  by  making  a  sport  of 
cruelty  is  another.  But  I  will  not  argue  this  matter  with 
you  now,  Jack.  It  would  be  a  cruelty  itself.  It  would 
be  inhospitable,  and  a  foppery.  I  wish  to  put  wine  down 
your  throat,  and  not  to  thrust  my  arguments.  Besides,  as 
you  say,  I  never  shall  convince  you ;  so  drink  your  claret." 

"  Mighty  considerate  persons  you  Tatler  and  Spectator 
men  are,  and  would  make  fine  havoc  with  our  amuse- 
ments." "  Excuse  me.  It  is  you  that  make  fine  havoc. 
I  would  have  you  amuse  yourself  to  your  heart's  content, 
if  you  would  do  it  without  breaking  the  bones  and  hearts 
of  your  fellow-creatures."  "  '  Fellow  creatures  ! '  and 
their  '  hearts ! '  The  hearts  of  woodcocks  and  partridges! 
Pooh,  pooh !  What  Bilson  says  is  very  true ; — he  says, 
if  you  come  to  think  of  it,  there  must  be  pain  in  the  world, 
and  it  would  be  unmanly  to  think  of  it  in  this  light." 

"  Very  well.  Then  do  you,  Jack,  who  are  so  manly, 
and  so  willing  to  encourage  one's  sports,  stand  a  little  far- 
ther, and  let  me  crack  your  shin  with  this  poker." 

"  Nonsense.     That's  a  very  different  thing." 

"  Perhaps  you'd  prefer  a  good  crack  on  the  skull  ?  " 

"  Nonsense." 

"  Or  a  thrust  out  of  your  eye  ?  " 

"  No,  no :  all  that's  very  different." 

"  Well :  you  know  what  you  have  been  about  this  morn- 
ing. Go  and  pick  your  way  again  along  the  palings  there ; 
and  leave  me  your  fowling-piece,  and  I'll  endeavor  to 
shoot  you  handsomely  through  the  body." 

*' Nonsense,  nonsense.  I'm  a  man,  you  know;  and  a 
bird's  a  bird.  Besides,  birds  don't  feel  as  we  do.  They're 


A    COUNTRY    LODGING.  25 

not  Christians.  They  are  not  reasoning  beings.  They're 
not  made  of  the  same  sort  of  stuff.  In  short,  it's  no  use 
talking.  There's  no  end  of  these  things." 

"  Just  so.  This  is  precisely  the  way  I  should  argue,  if 
I  had  the  winging  of  you.  Here,  I  should  say,  is  Mr. 
John  Tomkins.  Mind,  I  am  standing  with  my  manning- 
piece  by  a  hedge." 

"  With  your  what  1  " 

"With  my  manning-piece.  You  cannot  say  fowling- 
piece,  when  it  is  men  that  are  to  be  brought  down." 

"  Oh,  now  you're  joking." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  you  will  find  it  no  joke  presently. 
'  Here,'  says  I,  '  is  Mr.  John  Tomkins  coming ; '  or,  '  Here 
is  a  Tomkins.  Look  at  him.  He's  in  fine  coat  and  waist- 
coat (we  can't  say  feather,  you  know):  keep  close:  now 
for  my  Joe  Manton  :  you  shall  see  how  I'll  pepper  him.' 
'Pray  don't,'  says  my  companion.  'A  Tomkins  is  a 
Tomkins  after  all,  and  has  his  feelings  as  we  have.' 
'  Stuff! '  says  I :  '  Tomkinses  don't  feel  as  we  do.  They're 
not  Christians,  for  they  do  not  do  as  they  would  be  done 
by.  They're  not  reasoning  beings,  for  they  do  not  see  that 
a  leg's  a  leg.  They're  not  made  of  the  same  sort  of  stuff; 
and  so,  if  they  bleed,  it  does  not  signify; — if  they  die  of  a 
torturing  fracture,  who  cares  1  In  short,  it's  no  use  talk- 
ing. -  There's  no  end  of  these  things.  So  here  goes. 
Now,  if  I  hit  him,  he  is  killed  outright,  which  is  no  harm 
to  any  body ;  and  if  I  wound  him,  why,  he  only  goes 
groaning  and  writhing  for  three  or  four  days ;  and  who 
cares  for  that  1 ' ' 

"  Upon  my  soul,  if  I  listen,  you'll  make  a  milk-sop  of 
me.  Consider — think  of  the  advantages  of  fresh  air  and 
exercise;  of  getting  up  in  the  morning,  and  scouring  the 
country,  and  all  that." 

"  Excellent:  but,  my  dear  Tomkins,  the  birds  are  no* 
bound  to  suffer,  because  you  want  fresh  air." 

"  But  it's  the  only  time  of  the  year,  perhaps,  that  I  can 
3 


26  A    COUNTRY    LODGING. 

get  out;  and  I  must  have  something  to  do-— something  to 
occupy  me  and  lead  me  about." 

"  The  birds,  Tomkins,  are  not  bound  to  have  their  legs 
and  thighs  broken,  because  you  are  in  want  of  something 
to  lead  you  about." 

"  Well,  you  know  what  I  mean.  I  meant  that  we  must 
not  look  too  nicely  into  these  things,  as  somebody  said 
about  fish  ;  or  we  should  fret  ourselves  for  nothing.  The 
birds  kill  one  another." 

"  Yes,  from  necessity ;  for  the  want  of  a  meal.  But 
they  do  not  torture — or,  if  they  did,  that  would  be  because 
they  did  not  reason  as  well  as  you  and  I,  Tomkins." 

"What  I  meant  to  say  is,  that  there's  pain  in  the  world 
already  ;  we  cannot  help  it ;  and  if  we  can  turn  it  to 
pleasure,  so  much  the  better.  This  is  manly,  I  think." 

"  Well  said,  indeed.  But  to  turn  pain  into  pleasure,  and 
to  add  to  'it  by  more  pain,  are  two  different  things,  are 
they  not?  To  bear  pain  like  a  man,  and  to  inflict  it  like 
a  sportsman,  are  two  different  things." 

"  A  sportsman  can  bear  pain  as  well  as  any  body." 

"  Then  why  does  he  not  begin  by  turning  his  own  pain 
into  a  pleasure  ?  As  it  is,  he  turns  his  own  pleasure  to 
another's  pain.  Why  does  he  not  begin  with  himself?  " 

"How  with  himself?" 

"  Why,  you  talk  of  the  want  of  amusement  and  excite- 
ment. Now,  to  say  nothing  of  cricket,  and  golf,  and  boat- 
ing, and  other  sports,  are  there  no  such  things  to  be  had  as 
quarter-staves,  single-stick,  and  broken  heads?  A  good 
handsome  pain  there  is  a  gallant  thing,  and  strengthens 
the  soul  as  well  as  the  body.  If  there  must  be  a  certain 
portion  of  pain  in  the  world,  these  were  the  ways  to  share  it. 
But  to  sneak  about,  safe  one's-self,  with  a  gun  and  a  dog, 
and  inflict  all  sorts  of  wounds  and  torments  upon  a  parcel 
of  little  helpless  birds, — Tomkins,  you  know  not  what 
you  are  at,  when  you  do  it ;  or  you  are  too  much  of  a  man 
to  go  on." 


A    COUNTRY    LODGING.  27 

"  I  cannot  think  that  we  inflict  those  tortures  you 
speak  of." 

"  How  many  birds  do  you  wound  instead  of  kill  ?  Say, 
upon  an  average,  twenty  to  one,  which  is  a  generous  com- 
putation. How  many  hundred  birds  would  this  make  in 
the  course  of  the  day  ?  How  many  thousands  in  the 
course  of  a  season?  To  bring  them  down,  and  then  be 
obliged  to  kill  them,  is  butcherly  enough ;  but  to  lame, 
and  dislocate,  and  shatter  the  joints  and  bodies  of  so  many 
that  fly  off,  and  leave  them  to  die  a  lingering  death  in  their 
agony, — I  think  it  would  not  be  unworthy  of  some  philoso- 
phers and  teachers,  if  they  were  to  think  a  little  of  all  this 
as  they  go,  and  not  talk  of  the  'sport'  and  the  '  amuse- 
ment '  like  others ;  as  if  men  were  to  be  trained  up  at 
once  into  thought  and  want  of  thought,  into  humanity  and 
cruelty.  Really,  men  are  not  the  only  creatures  in  exist- 
ence ;  and  the  laugh  of  mutual  complacency  and  approba- 
tion is  apt  to  contain  very  sorry  and  shallow  things,  even 
among  the  '  celebrated  '  and  '  highly  respectable.'  I  don't 
speak  of  you,  Jack,  but  of  those  who  make  a  profession  of 
thinking,  which,  you  know,  you  are  not  under  the  neces- 
sity of  doing.  But  what's  the  matter?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  said  he,  "  oh  !  "  pressing  his  hand  upon  his 
cheek,  "  I've  got  a  terrible  toothache  come  upon  me.  Oh! 
Of  all  pains,  the  toothache  is  the  most  horrible.  I've  no 
patience  with  it." 

"  I'll  shut  the  door.  There — now  never  mind  the  tooth- 
ache, for  I'll  bear  it  capitally." 

"  You  bear  it!  That's  a  good  one.  Very  easy  for  you 
to  bear  it;  but  how  can  I?  Hm !  hm  !  (writhing  about) 
it's  the  most  intolerable  pain." 

"  Stay — here's  some  oil  of  cloves  Mrs.  Wilson  has 
brought  you.  How  does  it  feel  now  ?  " 

"  Wonderfully.  The  pain  is  quite  gone.  It  was  very 
bad,  I  assure  you.  You  must  not  think  I  am  wanting  in 
proper  courage  as  a  man,  because  it  hurt  me  so  You 


28  A    COUNTRY    LODGING. 

know,  Harry,  I  can  be  as  bold  as  most  men,  though  I  say 
it,  who  shouldn't." 

"  My  dear  Jack,  you  have  as  much  right  to  speak  the 
truth  as  I  have.  The  boldest  of  men  is  not  expected  to 
be  without  feeling.  An  officer  may  go  bravely  into  battle, 
and  bear  it  bravely  too,  but  he  must  feel  it :  he  cannot  be 
insensible  to  a  shattered  knee." 

"  Certainly  not." 

"  Or  to  a  jaw  blown  away." 

"  By  no  means." 

"  Or  four  of  his  ribs  jammed  in." 

"  Horrible ! " 

"  Or  a  face  mashed,  and  his  nose  forced  in." 

"  Don't  speak  of  it !  " 

"  Or  his  two  legs  taken  off  by  a  cannon  ball,  he  being 
left  to  fester  to  death  on  a  winter's  night  on  a  large  plain." 

"  Upon  my  soul,  you  make  my  flesh  creep  on  my  bones." 

"  A  gallant  spirit  is  not  bound  to  feel  all  this,  or  even  to 
hear  of  it,  without  shuddering,  even  though  the  battle  may 
be  necessary,  and  a  great  good  produced  by  it  to  society." 

"  Certainly,  certainly,  God  knows." 

"  It  is  only  a  woodcock  or  a  snipe  that  ought  to  bear  it 
without  complaining.  Your  partridge  is  the  only  piece  of 
flesh  and  blood  that  we  may  put  into  such  a  state  for  no 
necessity,  but  purely  for  our  sport  and  pleasure." 

"  How  1     What's  that  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  say  it  is  none  but  birds  that  we  may,  with  a  perfect 
conscience,  lame,  lacerate,  mash,  and  blow  their  legs  and 
beaks  away,  and  leave,  God  knows  where,  to  perish  of 
neglect  and  torture,  they  being  the  only  masculine  crea- 
tures living,  and  not  to  be  lowered  into  comparison  with 
soldiers  and  gallant  men." 

"Hey?— Why,  as  to  that— Hey?  What?  'Fore  George, 
you  bewilder  me  with  your  list  of  tortures.  But  how  am 
I  to  be  sure  that  a  bird  feels  as  you  say  ?  " 

"  tt  is  enough  that  you  know  nothing  certain.     As  you 


A    COUNTRY    LODGING.  29 

are  not  sure,  you  have  no  right  to  hazard  the  injustice, 
especially  as  you  cannot  help  being  sure  of  one  thing ; 
which  is,  that  birds  have  flesh  and  blood  like  ourselves, 
and  that  they  afford  similar  evidences  of  feeling  and  suf- 
fering. Allow  me  to  read  you  a  passage  that  I  cut,  the 
other  day,  out  of  an  old  review.  It  is  taken  from  Fother- 
gill's  Essay  on  the  Philosophy,  Study  and  Use  of  Natural 
History ;  a  book  which  I  shall  make  acquaintance  with  as 
soon  as  I  can.  Here  it  is. 

" '  It  may  perhaps  be  said,  that  a  discourse  on  the  iniquity  and 
evil  consequences  of  murder  would  come  with  a  bad  grace  from 
one  who  was  himself  a  murderer:  and  so  it  would;  but  not  if  it 
came  from  the  lips  of  a  repentant  murderer.  Who  can  describe 
that  which  he  has  not  seen,  or  give  utterance  to  that  which 
he  has  not  felt?  Never  shall  I  forget  the  remembrance  of 
a  little  incident  which  occurred  to  me  during  my  boyish 
days — an  incident  which  many  will  deem  trifling  and  unim- 
portant, but  which  has  been  particularly  interesting  to  my 
heart,  as  giving  origin  to  sentiments,  and  rules  of  action,  which 
have  since  been  very  dear  to  me. — Besides  a  singular  elegance 
of  form  and  beauty  of  plumage,  the  eye  of  the  common  lap- 
wing is  peculiarly  soft  and  expressive :  it  is  large,  black,  and 
full  of  lustre,  rolling,  as  it  seems  to  do,  in  liquid  gems  of  dew. 
I  had  shot  a  bird  of  this  beautiful  species  ;  but,  on  taking  it  up, 
I  found  that  it  was  not  dead.  I  had  wounded  its  breast ;  and 
some  big  drops  of  blood  stained  the  pure  whiteness  of  its 
feathers.  As  I  held  the  hapless  bird  in  my  hand,  hundreds  of 
its  companions  hovered  around  my  head,  uttering  continued 
shrieks  of  distress,  and,  by  their  plaintive  cries,  appeared  to  be- 
moan the  fate  of  one  to  whom  they  were  connected  by  ties  of 
the  most  tender  and  interesting  nature ;  whilst  the  poor  wound- 
ed bird  continually  moaned,  with  a  kind  of  inward,  wailing  note, 
expressive  of  the  keenest  anguish ;  and,  ever  and  anon,  it  raised 
its  drooping  head,  and,  turning  towards  the  wound  in  its  breast, 
touched  it  with  its  bill,  and  then  looked  up  in  my  face,  with  an 
expression  that  I  have  no  wish  to  forget,  for  it  had  power  to 
touch  my  heart,  whilst  yet  a  boy,  when  a  thousand  dry  precepts 
in  the  academical  closet  would  have  been  of  no  avail.' " 
3* 


SO  A    COUNTRY    LODGING. 

"  Well,  now,  Harry,  that's  touching.  He's  right  about 
the  precepts.  You  have  saved  'em  from  being  dry,  eh, 
with  your  claret?  but  all  that  you  have  said  hasn't  touched 
me  like  that  story.  A  lapwing !  Hang  me  if  I  shall  have 
the  heart  to  touch  another  lapwing." 

"  But  other  birds,  Jack,  have  feelings  as  well  as  lap- 
wings." 

"  What  do  you  say,  though,  about  Providence  ?  Bilson 
said  some  famous  things  about  Providence.  What  do  you 
say  to  that  ?  " 

"  Oh  ho  !     What,  he 

1  Admits,  and  leaves  them  Providence's  care' — 
does  he  ? — You  remember  the  passage,  Jack,  in  Pope — 

God  cannot  love  (cries  Blunt  with  tearless  eyes) 
The  wretch  he  starves ;  and  piously  denies. 
The  humbler  bishop,  with  a  meeker  air, 
Admits,  and  leaves  them,  Providence's  care.' 

But  we  are  Providence,  Jack.  Nay,  don't  start :  I  mean 
that  our  own  feelings,  our  own  regulated  feelings  and  in- 
structed benevolence,  are  a  part  of  the  general  action  of 
Providence,  a  consequence  and  furtherance  of  the  Divine 
Spirit.  You  see  I  can  preach  as  well  as  Bilson.  Human- 
ity is  the  most  visible  putting  forth  of  the  Deity's  hand ; 
the  noblest  tool  it  works  with.  Or,  if  this  theology  doesn't 
serve,  recollect  the  fable  of  Jupiter  and  the  Wagoner.  Are 
we  content  with  abstract  references  to  Providence,  when  we 
can  work  out  any  good  for  ourselves,  or  save  ourselves  from 
any  evil?  Did  Bilson  wait  for  Providence  to  induct  him 
to  his  living  ?  Did  he  not  make  a  good  stir  about  it  him- 
self? Push  him  into  a  ditch  the  next  time  you  meet  him, 
and  see  if  he  will  not  bustle  to  get  out  of  it.  Leave  him 
to  get  out  by  himself,  and  see  if  he  does  not  think  you  a 
hard-hearted  fellow.  Wing  him,  Jack,  wing  him ;  and 
see  if  he'll  apply  to  Providence  or  a  surgeon." 


AHMED    THE    COBBLER.  31 

"  Eh  ?  That  would  be  famous.  I  say — I  must  be  go- 
ing though  :  it's  getting  dark,  and  I  must  be  in  town  by 
nine.  Well,  Harry,  my  boy,  good  bye.  I  can't  say  you've 
convinced  me :  you  know  I  told  you  I  wasn't  to  be  con- 
vinced ;  but  I  plainly  confess  I  don't  like  the  story  of 
the  lapwing :  it  makes  the  bird  look  like  a  sort  of  human 
creature  ;  and  that's  not  to  be  resisted.  So  I'm  taken  in 
about  lapwings.  Adieu." 

"  Well,  Jack,  you  shall  say  that  in  print,  and  perhaps  do 
more  good  than  you  are  aware.  Have  you  any  objection  1 " 

"  Not  I,  'faith;  I'd  say  it  any  where,  if  it  came  into  my 
head.  But  how  1  In  the  Sporting  Magazine?" 

"  Why,  I'm  afraid  we  can  hardly  attain  to  such  eminence 
as  that,  especially  on  such  a  subject." 

"  I  was  thinking  so.  Oh,  I  see  : — you'll  pull  your  hive 
about  my  ears.  Well,  so  be  it.  Adieu,  Harry ;  I'll  send 
you  the  books." 


AHMED  THE   COBBLER. 

IN  the  great  city  of  Isfahan  lived  Ahmed  the  cobbler, 
an  honest  and  industrious  man,  whose  wish  was  to  pass 
through  life  quietly ;  and  he  might  have  done  so,  had  he 
not  married  a  handsome  wife,  who,  although  she  had  con- 
descended to  accept  of  him  as  a  husband,  was  far  from 
being  contented  with  his  humble  sphere  of  life. 

Sittara — such  was  the  name  of  Ahmed's  wife — was  ever 
forming  foolish  schemes  of  riches  and  grandeur;  and 
though  Ahmed  never  encouraged  them,  he  was  too  fond  a 
husband  to  quarrel  with  what  gave  her  pleasure:  an  in- 
credulous smile,  or  a  shake  of  the  head,  was  his  only 
answer  to  her  often-told  day-dreams ;  and  she  continued 
to  persuade  herself,  that  she  was  certainly  destined  to 
great  fortune. 


32  AHMED    THE    COBBLER. 

It  happened  one  evening,  while  in  this  temper  of  mind, 
that  she  went  to  the  Hemmam,  where  she  saw  a  lady  re- 
tiring dressed  in  a  magnificent  robe,  covered  with  jewels, 
and  surrounded  by  slaves.  This  was  the  very  condition 
Sittara  had  always  longed  for;  and  she  eagerly  inquired 
the  name  of  the  happy  person  who  had  so  many  attend- 
ants and  such  fine  jewels.  She  learned  it  was  the  wife  of 
the  chief  astrologer  to  the  king.  With  this  information 
she  returned  home.  Her  husband  met  her  at  the  door, 
but  was  received  with  a  frown ;  nor  could  all  his  caresses 
obtain  a  smile  or  a  word ;  for  several  hours  she  continued 
silent,  and  in  apparent  misery ;  at  length  she  said — 

"  Cease  your  caresses ;  unless  you  are  ready  to  give  me 
a  proof  that  you  do  really  and  sincerely  love  me." 

"What  proof  of  love,"  exclaimed  poor  Ahmed,  "can 
you  desire,  which  I  will  not  give?" 

"  Give  over  cobbling  :  it  is  a  vile,  low  trade,  and  never 
yields  more  than  ten  or  twelve  dinars  a  day.  Turn  astrolo- 
ger ',  your  fortune  will  be  made,  and  I  shall  have  all  I  wish, 
and  be  happy." 

"  Astrologer  !  "  cried  Ahmed ;  "  astrologer  !  Have  you 
forgotten  who  I  am — a  cobbler,  without  any  learning — 
that  you  want  me  to  engage  in  a  profession  which  requires 
so  much  skill  and  knowledge  ?  " 

"  I  neither  think  nor  care  about  your  qualifications," 
said  the  enraged  wife  :  "  all  I  know  is,  that  if  you  do  not 
turn  astrologer  immediately,  I  will  be  divorced  from  you 
to-morrow." 

The  cobbler  remonstrated,  but  in  vain.  The  figure  of 
the  astrologer's  wife,  with  her  jewels  and  her  slaves,  had 
taken  complete  possession  of  Sittara's  imagination.  All 
night  it  haunted  her;  she  dreamt  of  nothing  else;  and,  on 
awakening,  declared  she  would  leave  the  house,  if  her  hus- 
band did  not  comply  with  her  wishes.  What  could  poor  Ah- 
med do  ?  He  was  no  astrologer ;  but  he  was  dotingly  fond 


AHMED     THE     COBBLER.  33 

of  his  wife,  and  he  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  losing  her. 
He  promised  to  obey ;  and,  having  sold  his  little  stock, 
bought  an  astrolabe,  an  astronomical  almanac,  and  a  table 
of  the  twelve  signs  of  the  zodiac.  Furnished  with  these, 
he  went  to  the  market-place,  crying,  "  I  am  an  astrologer ! 
I  know  the  sun,  and  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  and  the 
twelve  signs  of  the  zodiac  ;  I  can  calculate  nativities ;  I 
can  foretell  every  thing  that  is  to  happen  !  " 

No  man  was  better  known  than  Ahmed  the  cobbler. 
A  crowd  soon  gathered  round  him.  "  What,  friend  Ah- 
med," said  one,  "  have  you  worked  till  your  head  is  turn- 
ed ? "  "  Are  you  tired  of  looking  down  at  your  last,"  cried 
another,  "that  you  are  now  looking  up  at  the  planets?" 
These,  and  a  thousand  other  jokes,  assailed  the  ears  of  the 
poor  cobbler,  who,  notwithstanding,  continued  to  exclaim 
that  he  was  an  astrologer,  having  resolved  on  doing  wha« 
he  could  to  please  his  beautiful  wife. 

It  so  happened,  that  the  king's  jeweller  was  passing  by 
He  was  in  great  distress,  having  lost  the  richest  ruby  be- 
longing to  the  crown.  Every  search  had  been  made  to 
recover  this  inestimable  jewel,  but  to  no  purpose ;  and  as 
the  jeweller  knew  he  could  no  longer  conceal  its  loss  from 
the  king,  he  looked  forward  to  death  as  inevitable.  In  this 
hopeless  state,  while  wandering  about  the  town,  he  reach- 
ed the  crowd  around  Ahmed,  and  asked  what  was  the 
matter.  "  Don't  you  know  Ahmed  the  cobbler?"  said 
one  of  the  bystanders,  laughing ;  "  he  has  been  inspired, 
and  is  become  an  astrologer." 

A  drowning  man  will  catch  at  a  broken  reed.  The  jew- 
eller no  sooner  heard  the  sound  of  the  word  astrologer, 
than  he  went  up  to  Ahmed,  told  him  what  had  happened, 
and  said,  "  If  you  understand  your  art,  you  must  be  able 
to  discover  the  king's  ruby.  Do  so,  and  I  will  give  you 
two  hundred  pieces  of  gold.  But  if  you  do  not  succeed 
within  six  hours,  I  will  use  all  my  influence  at  court  to 
have  you  put  to  death  as  an  impostor." 

Poor  Ahmed  was  thunderstruck.     He  stood  long  wjth- 


34  AHMED    THE    COBBLER. 

out  being  able  to  move  or  speak,  reflecting  on  his  misfor- 
tunes, and  grieving,  above  all,  that  his  wife,  whom  he  so 
loved,  had,  by  her  envy  and  selfishness,  brought  him  to 
such  a  fearful  alternative.  Full  of  these  sad  thoughts,  he 
exclaimed  aloud,  "  Oh,  woman,  woman !  thou  art  more 
baneful  to  the  happiness  of  man  than  the  poisonous  drag- 
on of  the  desert!" 

The  lost  ruby  had  been  secreted  by  the  jeweller's  wife, 
who,  disquieted  by  those  alarms  which  ever  attend  guilt, 
sent  one  of  her  female  slaves  to  watch  her  husband.  This 
slave,  on  seeing  her  master  speak  to  the  astrologer,  drew 
near ;  and  when  she  heard  Ahmed,  after  some  moments 
of  apparent  abstraction,  compare  a  woman  to  a  poisonous 
dragon,  she  was  satisfied  he  must  know  every  thing.  She 
ran  to  her  mistress,  and,  breathless  with  fear,  cried,  "You 
are  discovered,  my  dear  mistress ;  you  are  discovered  by  a 
vile  astrologer.  Before  six  hours  are  past,  the  whole  story 
will  be  known,  and  you  will  become  infamous,  if  you  are 
so  fortunate  as  to  escape  with  life,  unless  you  can  find 
some  way  of  prevailing  on  him  to  be  merciful."  She  then 
related  what  she  had  seen  and  heard ;  and  Ahmed's  ex- 
clamation carried  as  complete  conviction  to  the  mind  of 
the  terrified  mistress  as  it  had  done  to  that  of  her  slave. 

The  jeweller's  wife,  hastily  throwing  on  her  veil,  went 
in  search  of  the  dreaded  astrologer.  When  she  found 
him,  she  threw  herself  at  his  feet,  crying,  "  Spare  my 
honor  and  my  life,  and  I  will  confess  every  thing." 

"  What  can  you  have  to  confess  to  me  ? "  exclaimed 
Ahmed,  in  amazement. 

"  O  nothing,  nothing  with  which  you  are  not  already 
acquainted.  You  know  too  well  that  I  stole  the  ruby  from 
the  king's  crown.  I  did  so  to  punish  my  husband,  who 
uses  me  most  cruelly ;  and  I  thought  by  this  means  to  ob- 
tain riches  for  myself,  and  to  have  him  put  to  death.  But 
you,  most  wonderful  man,  from  whom  nothing  is  hidden, 
have  discovered  and  defeated  my  wicked  plan.  I  beg  only 
for  mercy,  and  will  do  whatever  you  command  me." 


AHMED    THE    COBBLER.  35 

An  angel  from  heaven  could  not  have  brought  more 
consolation  to  Ahmed  than  did  the  jeweller's  wife.  He 
assumed  all  the  dignified  solemnity  that  became  his  new 
character,  and  said,  "  Woman,  I  know  all  that  thou  hast 
done;  and  it  is  fortunate  for  thee  that  thou  hast  come  to 
confess  thy  sin,  and  beg  for  mercy  before  it  was  too  late. 
Return  to  thy  house,  put  the  ruby  under  the  pillow  of  the 
couch  on  which  thy  husband  sleeps  ;  let  it  be  laid  on  the 
side  farthest  from  the  door ;  and  be  satisfied  thy  guilt  shall 
never  be  even  suspected." 

The  jeweller's  wife  returned  home,  and  did  as  she  was 
desired.  In  an  hour  Ahmed  followed  her,  and  told  the 
jeweller  he  had  made  his  calculations,  and  found,  by  the 
aspect  of  the  sun  and  moon,  and  by  the  configuration  of 
the  stars,  that  the  ruby  was  at  that  moment  lying  under 
the  pillow  of  his  couch,  on  the  side  farthest  from  the  door. 
The  jeweller  thought  Ahmed  must  be  crazy  ;  but  as  a  ray 
of  hope  is  like  a  ray  from  heaven  to  the  wretched,  he  ran 
to  his  couch,  and  there,  to  his  joy  and  wonder,  found  the 
ruby  in  the  very  place  described.  He  came  back  to  Ah- 
med, embraced  him,  called  him  his  dearest  friend  and  the 
preserver  of  his  life,  gave  him  the  two  hundred  pieces  of 
gold,  declaring  that  he  was  the  first  astrologer  of  the  age. 

These  praises  conveyed  no  joy  to  the  poor  cobbler,  who 
returned  home  more  thankful  to  God  for  his  preservation 
than  elated  by  his  good  fortune.  The  moment  he  entered 
the  door,  his  wife  ran  up  to  him,  and  exclaimed,  "Well, 
my  dear  astrologer,  what  success?" 

"There!"  said  Ahmed,  very  gravely,  "there  are  two 
hundred  pieces  of  gold  :  I  hope  you  will  be  satisfied  now, 
and  not  ask  me  again  to  hazard  my  life,  as  I  have  done  this 
morning."  He  then  related  all  that  had  passed.  But  the 
recital  made  a  very  different  impression  on  the  lady  from 
what  these  occurrences  had  made  on  Ahmed.  Sittara 
saw  nothing  but  the  gold  which  would  enable  her  to  vie 
with  the  chief  astrologer's  wife  at  the  Hemmam.  "  Cour- 


36  AHMED    THE    COBBLER. 

age  !  "  said  she,  "  courage,  my  dearest  husband.  This  is 
only  your  first  labor  in  your  new  and  noble  profession.  Go 
on  and  prosper;  and  we  shall  become  rich  and  happy." 

In  vain  Ahmed  remonstrated,  and  represented  the  dan- 
ger :  she  burst  into  tears,  and  accused  him  of  not  loving 
her,  ending  with  her  usual  threat  of  insisting  upon  a  di- 
vorce. 

Ahmed's  heart  melted,  and  he  agreed  to  make  another 
trial.  Accordingly,  next  morning,  he  sallied  forth  with  his 
astrolabe,  his  twelve  signs  of  the  zodiac,  and  his  almanac, 
exclaiming,  as  before,  "  I  am  an  astrologer!  I  know  the 
sun,  and  the  moon,  and  the  stars,  and  the  twelve  signs  of 
the  zodiac ;  I  can  calculate  nativities ;  I  can  foretell  every 
thing  that  is  to  happen  !  "  A  crowd  again  gathered  round 
him ;  but  it  was  now  with  wonder,  and  not  ridicule ;  for 
the  story  of  the  ruby  had  gone  abroad,  and  the  voice 
of  fame  had  converted  the  poor  cobbler  Ahmed  into  the 
ablest  and  most  learned  astrologer  that  was  ever  seen  at 
Isfahan. 

While^every  body  was  gazing  at  him,  a  lady  passed  by 
veiled.  She  was  the  wife  of  one  of  the  richest  merchants 
in  the  city,  and  had  just  been  at  the  Hemmam,  where  she 
had  lost  a  valuable  necklace  and  ear-rings.  She  was  now 
returning  home  in  great  alarm,  lest  her  husband  should 
suspect  her  of  having  given  her  jewels  to  a  lover.  Seeing 
the  crowd  around  Ahmed,  she  asked  the  reason  of  their 
assembling,  and  was  informed  of  the  whole  story  of  the 
famous  astrologer ;  how  he  had  been  a  cobbler,  was  in- 
spired with  supernatural  knowledge,  and  could,  with  the 
help  of  his  astrolabe,  his  twelve  signs  of  the  zodiac,  and  his 
almanac,  discover  all  that  ever  had,  or  ever  would  happen 
in  the  world.  The  story  of  the  jeweller  and  the  king's 
ruby  was  then  told  her,  accompanied  by  a  thousand  won- 
derful circumstances  which  had  never  occurred.  The  lady, 
quite  satisfied 'of  his  skill,  went  up  to  Ahmed,  and  men- 
tioned her  loss,  saying,  "  A  man  of  your  knowledge  and 


AHMED    THE    COBBLER.  37 

penetration  will  easily  discover  my  jewels  :  find  them,  and 
I  will  give  you  fifty  pieces  of  gold." 

The  poor  cobbler  was  quite  confounded,  and  looked 
down,  thinking  only  how  to  escape  without  a  public  expo- 
sure of  his  ignorance.  The  lady,  in  passing  through  the 
crowd,  had  torn  the  lower  part  of  her  veil.  Ahmed's  down- 
cast eyes  noticed  this,  and,  wishing  to  inform  her  of  it  in  a 
delicate  manner,  before  it  was  observed  by  others,  he  whis- 
pered to  her,  "  Lady,  look  down  at  the  rent."  The  lady's 
head  was  full  of  her  loss,  and  she  was  at  that  moment 
endeavoring  to  recollect  how  it  could  have  occurred.  Ah- 
med's speech  brought  it  at  once  to  her  mind,  and  she  ex- 
claimed in  delighted  surprise,  "  Stay  here  a  few  moments, 
thou  great  astrologer.  I  will  return  immediately  with  the 
reward  thou  so  well  deservest."  Saying  this,  she  left  him, 
and  soon  returned,  carrying  in  one  hand  the  necklace  and 
earrings,  and  in  the  other  a  purse  with  fifty  pieces  of  gold. 
"  There  is  gold  for  thee,"  she  said,  "  thou  wonderful 
man,  to  whom  all  the  secrets  of  nature  are  revealed.  I 
had  quite  forgotten  where  I  laid  the  jewels,  and  without 
thee  should  never  have  found  them.  But  when  thou  de- 
siredst  me  to  look  at  the  rent  below,  I  instantly  recollected 
the  rent  near  the  bottom  of  the  wall  in  the  bath-room, 
where,  before  undressing,  I  had  hid  them.  I  can  now  go 
home  in  peace  and  comfort ;  and  it  is  all  owing  to  thee, 
thou  wisest  of  men." 

After  these  words,  she  walked  away,  and  Ahmed  return- 
ed to  his  home,  thankful  to  Providence  for  his  preservation, 
and  fully  resolved  never  again  to  tempt  it.  His  handsome 
wife,  however,  could  not  yet  rival  the  chief  astrologer's 
lady  in  her  appearance  at  the  Hemmam ;  so  she  renewed 
her  entreaties  and  threats  to  make  her  fond  husband  con- 
tinue his  career  as  an  astrologer. 

About  this  time,  it  happened  that  the  king's  treasury  was 
robbed  of  forty  chests  of  gold  and  jewels,  forming  the 
greater  part  of  the  wealth  of  the  kingdom.  The  high- 


38  AHMED    THE    COBBLER. 

treasurer  and  other  officers  of  state  used  all  diligence  to 
find  the  thieves,  but  in  vain.  The  king  sent  for  his  astrolo- 
ger, and  declared,  that  if  the  robbers  were  not  detected  by 
a  stated  time,  he,  as  well  as  the  principal  ministers,  should 
be  put  to  death.  Only  one  day  of  the  short  period  given 
them  remained.  All  their  search  had  proved  fruitless,  and 
the  chief  astrologer,  who  had  made  his  calculations  and 
exhausted  his  art  to  no  purpose,  had  resigned  himself  to 
his  fate,  when  one  of  his  friends  advised  him  to  send  for 
the  wonderful  cobbler,  who  had  become  so  famous  for  his 
extraordinary  discoveries.  Two  slaves  were  immediately 
despatched  for  Ahmed,  whom  they  commanded  to  go  with 
them  to  their  master.  "  You  see  the  effects  of  your  ambi- 
tion," said  the  poor  cobbler  to  his  wife ;  "  I  am  going  to 
my  death.  The  king's  astrologer  has  heard  of  my  pre- 
sumption, and  is  determined  to  have  me  executed  as  an 
impostor." 

On  entering  the  palace  of  the  chief  astrologer,  he  was 
surprised  to  see  that  dignified  person  come  forward  to  re- 
ceive him,  and  lead  him  to  the  seat  of  honor,  and  not  less  so 
to  hear  himself  thus  addressed : — "  The  ways  of  Heaven, 
most  learned  and  excellent  Ahmed,  are  unsearchable. 
The  high  are  often  cast  down,  and  the  low  are  lifted  up. 
The  whole  world  depends  upon  fate  and  fortune.  It  is  my 
turn  now  to  be  depressed  by  fate ;  it  is  thine  to  be  exalted 
by  fortune." 

His  speech  was  here  interrupted  by  a  messenger  from 
the  king,  who,  having  heard  of  the  cobbler's  fame,  de- 
sired his  attendance.  Poor  Ahmed  now  concluded  that  it 
was  all  over  with  him,  and  followed  the  king's  messenger, 
praying  to  God  that  he  would  deliver  him  from  his  peril. 
When  he  came  into  the  king's  presence,  he  bent  his  body 
'to  the  ground,  and  wished  his  majesty  long  life  and  pros- 
perity. "  Tell  me,  Ahmed,"  said  the  king,  "  who  has 
stolen  my  treasure." 

*'  It  was  not  one  man,"  answered  Ahmed,  after  some 


AHMED    THE    COBBLER.  39 

consideration :  "  there  were  forty  thieves  concerned  in  the 
robbery." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  king;  "  but  who  were  they?  and 
what  have  they  done  with  my  gold  and  jewels  ?  " 

"  These  questions,"  said  Ahmed,  "I  cannot  now  answer, 
but  I  hope  to  satisfy  your  majesty,  if  you  will  grant  me  forty 
days  to  make  my  calculations." 

"  I  grant  you  forty  days,"  said  the  king ;  "  but  when 
they  are  past,  if  my  treasure  is  not  found,  your  life  shall 
pay  the  forfeit." 

Ahmed  returned  to  his  house  well  pleased;  for  he  re- 
solved to  take  advantage  of  the  time  allowed  him,  to  fly 
from  a  city  where  his  fame  was  likely  to  be  his  ruin. 
"  Well,  Ahmed,"  said  his  wife,  as  he  entered  the  house, 
"  what  news  at  court?  " 

•'  No  news  at  all,"  said  he,  "  except  that  I  am  to  be  put 
10  death  at  the  end  of  forty  days,  unless  I  find  forty  chests 
of  gold  and  jewels,  which  have  been  stolen  from  the  royal 
treasury." 

"  But  you  will  discover  the  thieves." 

"  How  ?     By  what  means  am  I  to  find  them  1 " 

"  By  the  same  art  which  discovered  the  ruby  and  the 
lady's  necklace." 

"  The  same  art !  "  replied  Ahmed.  "  Foolish  woman  ! 
Thou  knowest  that  I  have  no  art,  and  that  I  have  only  pre- 
tended to  it  for  the  sake  of  pleasing  thee.  But  I  have  had 
sufficient  skill  to  gain  forty  days,  during  which  time  we 
may  easily  escape  to  some  other  city ;  and,  with  the  money 
I  now  possess,  and  the  aid  of  my  former  occupation,  we 
may  still  obtain  an  honest  livelihood." 

"  An  honest  livelihood  !  "  repeated  his  lady  with  scorn. 
"  Will  thy  cobbling,  thou  mean,  spiritless  wretch !  ever 
enable  me  to  go  to  the  Hemmam  like  the  wife  of  the  chief 
astrologer  ?  Hear  rue,  Ahmed  :  think  only  of  discovering 
the  king's  treasure.  Thou  hast  just  as  good  a  chance  of 
doing  so  as  thou  hadst  of  finding  the  ruby,  and  the  neck- 


40  AHMED    THE    COBBLER. 

lace  and  earrings.     At  all  events,  I  am  determined  that 

O  * 

thou  shalt  not  escape ;  and  shouldst  thou  attempt  to  run 
away,  I  will  inform  the  king's  officers,  and  have  thee  taken 
up,  and  put  to  death,  even  before  the  forty  days  are  expir- 
ed. Thou  knowest  me  too  well,  Ahmed,  to  doubt  my  keep- 
ing my  word.  So  take  courage,  and  endeavor  to  make 
thy  fortune,  and  to  place  me  in  that  rank  of  life  to  which 
my  beauty  entitles  me." 

The  poor  cobbler  was  dismayed  at  this  speech ;  but, 
knowing  there  was  no  hope  of  changing  his  wife's  reso- 
lution, he  resigned  himself  to  his  fate.  "  Well,"  said 
he,  "  your  will  shall  be  obeyed.  All  I  desire  is  to  pass  the 
few  remaining  days  of  my  life  as  comfortably  as  I  can. 
You  know  I  am  no  scholar,  and  have  little  skill  in  reckon- 
ing ;  so  there  are  forty  dates :  give  me  one  of  them  every 
night  after  I  have  said  my  prayers,  that  I  may  put  them  in 
a  jar,  and,  by  counting  them,  may  always  see  how  many  of 
the  few  days  I  have  to  live  are  gone." 

The  lady,  pleased  at  carrying  her  point,  took  the  dates, 
and  promised  to  be  punctual  in  doing  what  her  husband 
desired. 

Meanwhile,  the  thieves,  who  had  stolen  the  king's  treas- 
ure, having  been  kept  from  leaving  the  city  by  fear  of  de- 
tection and  pursuit,  had  received  accurate  information  of 
every  measure  taken  to  discover  "them.  One  of  them  was 
among  the  crowd  before  the  palace  on  the  day  the  king 
sent  for  Ahmed ;  and,  hearing  that  the  cobbler  had  imme- 
diately declared  their  exact  number,  he  ran  in  a  fright  to 
his  comrades,  and  exclaimed,  "  We  are  all  found  out !  Ah- 
med, the  new  astrologer,  has  told  the  king  that  there  are 
forty  of  us." 

"  There  needed  no  astrologer  to  tell  that,"  said  the  cap- 
tain of  the  gang.  "  This  Ahmed,  with  all  his  simple  good 
nature,  is  a  shrewd  fellow.  Forty  chests  having  been  sto- 
len, he  naturally  guessed  that  there  must  be  forty  thieves; 
and  he  has  made  a  good  hit ;  that  is  all :  still,  it  is  prudent 


AHMED    THK    COSHLER.  41 

to  watch  him;  for  he  certainly  has  made  some  strange  dis- 
coveries. One  of  us  must  go  to-night,  after  dark,  to  the 
terrace  of  this  cobbler's  house,  and  listen  to  his  conversa- 
tion with  his  handsome  wife ;  for  he  is  said  to  be  very  fond 
of  her,  and  will,  no  doubt,  tell  her  what  success  he  has 
had  in  his  endeavors  to  detect  us." 

Every  bo.ly  approved  of  this  scheme ;  and,  soon  after 
night-fall,  one  of  the  thieves  repaired  to  the  terrace.  He 
arrived  there  just  as  the  cobbler  had  finished  his  evening 
prayers,  and  his  wife  was  giving  him  the  first  date.  "  Ah  !  " 
said  Ahmed,  as  he  took  it,  "  there  is  one  of  the  forty." 

The  thief,  hearing  these  words,  hastened,  in  consterna- 
tion, to  the  gang,  and  told  them  that,  the  moment  he  took 
his  post,  he  had  been  perceived  by  the  supernatural  knowl- 
edge of  Ahmed,  who  immediately  told  his  wife  that  one  of 
them  was  there.  The  spy's  tale  was  not  believed  by  his 
hardened  companions:  something  was  imputed  to  his  fears: 
he  might  have  been  mistaken  :  in  short,  it  was  determined 
to  send  two  men  the  next  night  at  the  same  hour.  They 
reached  the  house  just  as  Ahmed,  having  finished  his 
prayers,  had  received  the  second  date,  and  heard  him  ex- 
claim, "  My  dear  wife,  to-night  there  are  two  of  them." 

The  astonished  thieves  fled,  and  told  their  still  incredu- 
lous comrades  what  they  had  heard.  Three  men  were 
consequently  sent  the  third  night,  four  the  fourth,  and  so 
on.  Being  afraid  of  venturing  during  the  day,  they  always 
came  as  evening  closed  in,  and  just  as  Ahmed  was  receiv- 
ing his  date  :  hence  they  all  in  turn  heard  him  say  that 
which  convinced  them  he  was  aware  of  their  presence. 
On  the  last  night,  they  all  went;  and  Ahmed  exclaimed 
aloud,  "  The  number  is  complete.  To-night,  the  whole 
forty  are  here." 

All  doubts  were  now  removed.     It  was  impossible  that 

Ahmed  should  have  discovered  them  by  any  natural  means. 

How  could  he  ascertain  their  exact  number?  and  night 

after  night,  without  ever  once  being  mistaken  ?     He  must 

4* 


42  AHMED    THE    COBBLER. 

have  learnt  it  by  his  skill  in  astrology.  Even  the  captain 
now  yielded,  in  spite  of  his  incredulity,  and  declared  his 
opinion  that  it  was  hopeless  to  elude  a  man  thus  gifted ; 
he  therefore  advised  that  they  should  make  a  friend  of 
the  cobbler,  by  confessing  every  thing  to  him,  and  bribing 
him  to  secrecy  by  a  share  of  the  booty. 

His  advice  was  approved  of;  and,  an  hour  before  dawn, 
they  knocked  at  Ahmed's  door.  The  poor  man  jumped 
out  of  bed,  and,  supposing  the  soldiers  were  come  to  lead 
him  to  execution,  cried  out,  "  Have  patience.  I  know 
what  you  are  come  for.  It  is  a  very  unjust  and  wicked 
deed." 

"  Most  wonderful  man,"  said  the  captain,  as  the  door 
was  opened,  "  we  are  fully  convinced  that  thou  knowest 
why  we  are  come ;  nor  do  we  mean  to  justify  the  action  of 
which  thou  speakest.  Here  are  two  thousand  pieces  of 
gold,  which  we  will  give  thee,  provided  thou  wilt  swear  to 
say  nothing  more  about  the  matter." 

"  Say  nothing  about  it!  "  said  Ahmed.  "  Do  you  think 
it  possible  I  can  suffer  such  gross  wrong  and  injustice  with- 
out complaining,  and  making  it  known  to  all  the  world  ?  " 

"  Have  mercy  upon  us !  "  exclaimed  the  thieves,  falling 
on  their  knees  ;  "  only  spare  our  lives,  and  we  will  restore 
the  royal  treasure." 

The  cobbler  started,  rubbed  his  eyes,  to  see  if  he  were 
asleep  or  awake ;  and,  being  satisfied  that  he  was  awake, 
and  that  the  men  before  him  were  really  the  thieves,  he 
assumed  a  solemn  tone,  and  said,  "  Guilty  men,  ye  are 
persuaded  that  ye  cannot  escape  from  my  penetration, 
which  reaches  unto  the  sun  and  moon,  and  knows  the 
position  and  aspect  of  every  star  in  the  .heavens.  Your 
timely  repentance  has  saved  you.  But  ye  must  immedi- 
ately restore  all  that  ye  have  stolen.  Go  straightway,  and 
carry  the  forty  chests  exactly  as  ye  found  them,  and  bury 
them  a  foot  deep  under  the  southern  wall  of  the  old  Hem- 
mam,  beyond  the  king's  palace.  If  ye  do  this  punctually, 


AHMED    THE    COBBLER.  43 

your  lives  are  spared ;  but  if  ye  fail  in  the  slightest  de- 
gree, destruction  will  fall  upon  you  and  your  families." 

The  thieves  promised  obedience  to  his  commands,  and 
departed.  Ahmed  then  fell  on  his  knees,  and  returned 
thanks  to  God  for  this  signal  mark  of  his  favor.  About 
two  hours  after,  the  royal  guards  came,  and  desired  Ah- 
med to  follow  them.  He  said  he  would  attend  them  as 
soon  as  he  had  taken  leave  of  his  wife,  to  whom  he  deter- 
mined not  to  impart  what  had  occurred  until  he  saw  the 
result.  He  bade  her  farewell  very  affectionately.  She  sup- 
ported herself  with  great  fortitude  on  this  trying  occasion, 
exhorting  her  husband  to  be  of  good  cheer,  and  said  a  few 
words  about  the  goodness  of  Providence.  But  the  fact 
was,  Sittara  fancied  that  if  God  took  the  worthy  cobbler 
to  himself,  her  beauty  might  attract  some  rich  lover,  who 
would  enable  her  to  go  to  the  Hemmam  with  as  much 
splendor  as  the  astrologer's  lady,  whose  image,  adorned 
with  jewels  and  fine  clothes,  and  surrounded  by  slaves, 
still  haunted  her  imagination. 

The  decrees  of  Heaven  are  just :  a  reward  suited  to 
their  merits  awaited  Ahmed  and  his  wife.  The  good  man 
stood  with  a  cheerful  countenance  before  the  king,  who 
was  impatient  for  his  arrival,  and  immediately  said,  "  Ah- 
med, thy  looks  are  promising:  hast  thou  discovered  my 
treasure  ? " 

"  Does  your  majesty  require  the  thieves  or  the  treasure  ? 
The  stars  will  only  grant  one  or  the  other,"  said  Ahmed, 
looking  at  his  table  of  astrological  calculations.  "  Your 
majesty  must  make  your  choice.  I  can  deliver  up  either, 
but  not  both." 

"  I  should  be  sorry  not  to  punish  the  thieves,"  answered 
the  king ;  "  but,  if  it  must  be  so,  I  choose  the  treasure." 

"  And  you  give  the  thieves  a  full  and  free  pardon  ?  " 

"  I  do,  provided  I  find  my  treasure  untouched." 

"  Then,"  said  Ahmed,  "  if  your  majesty  will  follow  me, 
the  treasure  shall  be  restored  to  vou." 


44  AHMED    THE    COBBLER. 

The  king  and  all  his  nobles  followed  the  cobbler  to  the 
ruins  of  the  old  Hemmam.  There,  casting  his  eyes  to- 
ward heaven,  Ahmed  muttered  some  sounds,  which  were 
supposed,  by  the  spsctators,  to  be  magical  conjurations,  but 
which  were,  in  reality,  the  prayers  and  thanksgivings  of  a 
sincere  and  pious  heart  to  God,  for  his  wonderful  deliver- 
ance. When  his  prayer  was  finished,  he  pointed  to  the 
southern  wall,  and  requested  that  his  majesty  would  order 
his  attendants  to  dig  there.  The  work  was  hardly  begun, 
when  the  whole  forty  chests  were  found  in  the  same  state 
as  when  stolen,  with  the  treasurer's  seal  upon  them  still 
unbroken. 

The  king's  joy  knew  no  bounds :  he  embraced  Ahmed, 
and  immediately  appointed  him  his  chief  astrologer,  as- 
signed to  him  an  apartment  in  the  palace,  and  declared 
that  he  should  marry  his  only  daughter,  as  it  was  his  duty 
to  promote  the  man  whom  God  had  so  singularly  favored, 
and  had  made  instrumental  in  restoring  the  treasures  of 
his  kingdom.  The  young  princess,  who  was  more  beauti- 
ful than  the  moon,  was  not  dissatisfied  with  her  father's 
choice ;  for  her  mind  was  stored  with  religion  and  virtue, 
and  she  had  learned  to  value  beyond  all  earthly  qualities 
that  piety  arid  learning  which  she  believed  Ahmed  to  pos- 
sess. The  royal  will  was  carried  into  execution  as  soon 
as  formed.  The  wheel  of  fortune  had  taken  a  complete 
turn.  The  morning  had  found  Ahmed  in  a  wretched 
hovel,  rising  from  a  sorry  bed,  in  the  expectation  of  losing 
his  life:  in  the  evening,  he  was  the  lord  of  a  rich  palace, 
and  married  to  the  only  daughter  of  a  powerful  king. 
But  this  change  did  not  alter  his  character.  As  he  had 
been  meek  and  humble  in  adversity,  he  was  modest  and 
gentle  in  prosperity.  Conscious  of  his  own  ignorance,  he 


AHMED    THE    COBBLER.  45 

continued  to  ascribe  his  good  fortune  solely  to  the  favor 
of  Providence.  He  became  daily  more  attached  to  the 
beautiful  and  virtuous  princess  whom  he  had  married ;  and 
he  could  not  help  contrasting  her  character  with  that  of 
his  former  wife,  whom  he  had  ceased  to  love,  and  of  whose 
unreasonable  and  unfeeling  vanity  he  was  now  fully  sen- 
sible. 

As  Ahmed  did  not  return  to  his  house,  Sittara  only  heard 
of  his  elevation  from  common  rumor.  She  saw,  with  de- 
spair, that  her  wishes  for  his  advancement  had  been  more 
than  accomplished,  but  that  all  her  own  desires  had 
been  entirely  frustrated.  Her  husband  was  chief  astrolo- 
ger— the  very  situation  she  had  set  her  heart  on :  he  was 
rich  enough  to  enable  his  wife  to  surpass  all  the  ladies  of 
Isfahan  in  the  number  of  her  slaves,  and  the  finery  of 
her  clothes  and  jewels,  whenever  she  went  to  the  Hem- 
mam  ;  but  he  had  married  a  princess ;  and  his  former 
wife,  according  to  custom,  was  banished  from  his  house, 
and  condemned  to  live  on  whatever  pittance  she  might  re- 
ceive from  a  man  whose  love  and  esteem  she  had  forever 
forfeited.  These  thoughts  distracted  her  mind  :  her  envy 
was  excited  by  the  accounts  she  daily  heard  of  Ahmed's 
happiness,  and  of  the  beauty  of  the  princess ;  and  she 
now  became  anxious  only  for  his  destruction,  looking  on 
him  as  the  sole  cause  of  her  disappointment. 

An  opportunity  of  indulging  her  revengeful  feelings  was 
not  long  wanting.  The  king  of  Seestan  had  sent  an  em- 
erald, of  extraordinary  size  and  brilliancy,  as  a  present,  to 
the  king  of  Irak.  It  was  carefully  enclosed  in  a  box,  to 
which  there  were  three  keys ;  and  one  of  them  was  given 
in  charge  to  each  of  the  three  confidential  servants  em- 
ployed to  convey  it.  When  they  reached  Isfahan,  the  box 
was  opened,  but  the  emerald  was  gone.  Nothing  could 
exceed  their  consternation:  each  accused  the  other:  as 
the  lock  was  not  broken,  it  was  evident  one  of  them  must 
be  the  thief.  They  consulted  what  was  to  be  done.  To 


46  AHMED    THE    COBBLER. 

conceal  what  had  happened,  was  impossible :  the  very  at- 
tempt would  have  brought  death  on  them  all.  It  was  re- 
solved, therefore,  to  lay  the  whole  matter  before  the  king, 
and  beg  that  by  his  great  wisdom  he  would  deteqt  the  cul- 
prit, and  that  he  would  show  mercy  to  the  other  two. 

The  king  heard  the  story  with  astonishment,  but  was 
unable  to  find  any  clew  by  which  he  might  ascertain  the 
truth.  He  summoned  his  vizier  and  all  the  wisest  men  of 
his  court ;  but  they  were  as  much  at  a  loss  as  their  mas- 
ter. The  report  spread  through  the  city ;  and  Sittara 
thought  she  had  now  the  means  of  working  her  husband's 
ruin.  She  solicited  a  private  audience  of  his  majesty,  on 
the  plea  of  having  a  communication  of  importance  to 
make.  Her  request  was  granted.  On  entering  the  royal 
presence,  she  threw  herself  at  his  feet,  exclaiming,  "  Par- 
don, O  king,  my  having  so  long  concealed  the  guilt  of 
my  husband  Ahmed,  whose  alliance  is  a  disgrace  to  the 
royal  blood.  He  is  no  astrologer,  but  an  associate  of 
thieves,  and  by  that  means  only  did  he  discover  the  royal 
treasure.  If  any  doubts  are  entertained  of  my  speaking 
the  truth,  let  his  majesty  command  Ahmed  to  recover  the 
emerald  which  the  servants  of  the  king  of  Seestan  have 
stolen.  Surely  the  man,  who,  by  his  wonderful  art,  ascer- 
tained where  all  the  treasure  of  the  kingdom  was  conceal- 
ed, will  find  it  an  easy  matter  to  discover  a  single  precious 
stone." 

The  king,  who  loved  his  son-in-law,  was  grieved  by  this 
information.  Still,  as  the  honor  of  his  family  was  con- 
cerned, he  resolved  to  put  Ahmed  to  the  test,  and,  if 
he  found  him  an  impostor,  to  vindicate  the  royal  dignity 
by  his  condign  punishment.  He  therefore  sent  for  Ah- 
med, told  him  what  had  happened,  and  added,  "  I  give 
you  twenty  days  to  discover  who  stole  the  emerald.  If 
you  succeed,  you  shall  be  raised  to  the  highest  honors 
of  the  state.  If  not,  you  shall  suffer  death  for  having  de- 
ceived me." 


AHMED    THE    COBBLER.  47 

Poor  Ahmed  quitted  the  presence  quite  disconsolate. 
The  princess,  perceiving  his  affliction,  inquired  the  cause. 
Ahmed  was  by  nature  as  sincere  as  he  was  pious  and  hum- 
ble. He  related,  without  concealment  or  disguise,  every 
event  of  his  past  life,  and  concluded  with  these  words : 
"  You  must  see,  from  what  I  have  said,  how  incapable 
I  am  of  doing  what  your  father  enjoins.  My  life  must 
answer  for  it ;  and  my  only  consolation  is,  that  I  shall,  in 
twenty  days,  relieve  you  from  a  husband  whom,  from  this 
time,  you  must  despise." 

"  I  only  love  you  the  better,  my  dear  Ahmed,  for  your 
sincerity  and  truth,"  said  the  princess.  "  One  who  has 
been  so  favored  by  Heaven  must  be  dear  to  every  pious 
heart.  Be  of  good  cheer  :  I  will  turn  astrologer  this  time, 
and  see  whether  I  can  find  out  the  thief.  All  that  I 
require  is,  that  you  endeavor  to  be  composed,  while  I  con- 
sult the  stars  and  make  my  calculations." 

Ahmed,  delighted  by  this  proof  of  affection,  and  re- 
assured by  the  confidence  of  her  manner,  promised  to  be 
obedient,  and  said  he  would  only  venture  to  assist  her 
exertions  by  his  earnest  prayers  to  that  Power  which  had 
never  deserted  him. 

The  princess  immediately  invited  the  messengers  from 
the  king  of  Seestan  to  her  palace.  They  were  surprised 
at  the  invitation,  and  still  more  at  their  reception.  "  You 
are  strangers,"  she  said  to  them,  "  and  come  from  a  pow- 
erful king.  It  is  my  wish  to  show  you  every  attention. 
As  to  the  lost  emerald,  think  no  more  of  it;  it  is  a  mere 
trifle.  I  will  intercede  with  the  king,  my  father,  to  give 
himself  no  further  concern  on  the  subject,  being  con- 
vinced that  it  has  been  lost  by  one  of  those  strange  acci- 
dents for  which  it  is  impossible  to  account." 

The  princess  entertained  the  strangers  for  several  days, 
and  during  that  time  the  emerald  seemed  to  be  forgotten. 
She  conversed  with  them  freely,  inquiring  particularly  of 
Seestan,  and  the  countries  they  had  seen  on  their  travels. 


48  AHMED    THE    COBBLER. 

Flattered  by  her  condescension,  they  became  confident  of 
their  safety,  and  were  delighted  with  their  royal  patroness. 
The  princess,  seeing  them  completely  off  their  guard, 
turned  the  conversation,  one  evening,  on  wonderful  occur- 
rences, and,  after  each  had  related  his  story,  said,  "  I  will 
now  recount  to  you  some  events  in  my  own  life,  which 
you  will,  I  think,  deem  more  extraordinary  than  any  you 
have  ever  heard. 

"  I  am  my  father's  only  child,  and  have  therefore  been  a 
favorite  from  my  birth.  I  was  brought  up  in  the  belief 
that  I  could  command  whatever  this  world  can  afford, 
and  was  taught  that  unbounded  liberality  was  the  first  and 
most  princely  of  virtues.  I  early  resolved  to  surpass  every 
former  example  of  generosity.  I  thought  my  power  of 
doing  good,  and  making  every  body  happy,  was  as  unlim- 
ited as  my  wish  to  do  so ;  and  I  could  not  conceive  the 
existence  of  misery  beyond  my  power  to  relieve.  When 
[  was  eighteen,  I  was  betrothed  to  my  cousin,  a  young 
prince,  who  excelled  all  others  in  beauty  of  person  and 
nobleness  of  mind;  and  I  fancied  myself  at  the  summit 
of  happiness.  It  chanced,  however,  that,  on  the  morning 
of  my  nuptials,  I  went  to  walk  in  a  garden  near  the  pal- 
ace, where  I  had  been  accustomed  to  spend  some  hours 
daily  from  my  childhood.  The  old  gardener,  with  whose 
cheerfulness  I  had  often  been  amused,  met  me.  Seeing 
him  look  very  miserable,  I  asked  him  what  was  the  mat- 
ter. He  evaded  a  direct  answer ;  but  I  insisted  upon  his 
disclosing  the  cause  of  his  grief,  declaring,  at  the  same 
time,  my  determination  to  remove  it." 

" '  You  cannot  relieve  me,'  said  the  old  man,  with  a 
deep  sigh :  '  it  is  out  of  your  power,  my  beloved  prin- 
cess, to  heal  the  wound  of  which  I  am  dying.' 

"  My  pride  was  roused,  and  I  exclaimed,  '  I  swear — ' 

"'  Do  not  swear,'  said  the  gardener,  seizing  my  hand. 

"  '  I  do  swear,'  I  repeated  (irritated  by  the  opposition). 
'  I  will  stop  at  nothing  to  make  you  happy  ;  and  I  further 


AHMED    THE    COBBLER.  49 

swear,  that  I  will  not  leave  this  spot  until  you  reveal  the 
grief  which  preys  upon  you.' 

"  The  old  man,  seeing  my  resolution,  spoke  with  tremu- 
lous emotion  as  follows :  '  Princess,  you  know  not  what 
you  have  done.  Behold  a  man  who  has  dared,  for  these 
two  years,  to  look  upon  you  with  an  eye  of  admiration  :  his 
love  has  at  length  reached  such  a  pitch,  that  without  you 
he  must  be  wretched  forever ;  and  unless  you  consent  to 
meet  him  in  the  garden  to-night,  and  become  his  bride  in- 
stead of  that  of  the  prince,  he  must  die.' 

"  Shocked  by  this  unforeseen  declaration,  and  trembling 
at  the  thought  of  my  oath,  I  tried  to  reason  with  the 
old  gardener,  and  offered  him  all  the  wealth  I  possessed. 
'  I  told  you,'  he  replied,  '  beautiful  princess,  that  you  could 
not  make  me  happy.  I  endeavored  to  prevent  your  rash 
vow ;  and  nothing  but  that  should  have  drawn  from  me 
the  secret  of  my  heart.  Death,  I  know,  is  my  fate ;  for  I 
cannot  live  and  see  you  the  wife  of  another.  Leave  me 
to  die.  Go  to  your  husband  ;  go  to  the  enjoyment  of  your 
pomp  and  riches  ;  but  never  again  pretend  to  the  exercise 
of  a  power  which  depends  upon  a  thousand  circumstances 
that  no  human  being  can  regulate  or  control.' 

"  This  speech  conveyed  a  bitter  reproach.  I  would 
have  sacrificed  my  life  a  hundred  times,  sooner  than 
stain  my  honor  by  marrying  this  man ;  but  I  had  made 
a  vow  in  the  face  of  Heaven,  and  to  break  it  seemed  sac- 
rilege. Besides,  I  earnestly  wished  to  die  undeceived  in 
my  favorite  notion,  that  I  could  make  all  who  came  near 
me  happy.  Under  the  struggle  of  these  different  feelings, 
I  told  the  gardener  his  desire  should  be  granted,  and  that 
I  would  be  in  the  garden  an  hour  before  midnight.  After 
this  assurance,  I  went  away,  resolved  in  my  own  mind  not 
to  outlive  the  disgrace  to  which  I  had  doomed  myself. 

I  passed  the  day  in  the  deepest  melancholy.  A  little 
before  midnight,  I  contrived  to  dismiss  my  attendants,  and, 
arrayed  in  my  bridal  apparel,  which  was  covered  with  the 
5 


50  AHMED    THE    COBBLER. 

richest  jewels,  I  went  towards  the  garden.  I  had  not  pro- 
ceeded many  yards,  when  I  was  met  by  a  thief,  who,  seiz- 
ing me,  said,  '  Let  me  strip  you,  madam,  of  these  un- 
necessary ornaments  :  if  you  make  the  least  noise,  instant 
death  awaits  you.'  In  my  state  of  mind,  such  threats 
frightened  me  little.  I  wished  to  die ;  but  I  wished,  before 
I  died,  to  fulfil  my  vow.  I  told  my  story  to  the  thief,  be- 
seeching him  to  let  me  pass,  and  pledging  my  word  to  re- 
turn, that  he  might  not  be  disappointed  of  his  booty.  Af- 
ter some  hesitation,  he  allowed  me  to  proceed. 

"  I  had  not  gone  many  steps,  when  I  encountered  a  fu- 
rious lion,  which  had  broken  loose  from  my  father's  mena- 
gerie. Knowing  the  merciful  nature  of  this  animal  tow- 
ards the  weak  and  defenceless,  I  dropped  on  my  knees, 
repeated  my  story,  and  assured  him,  if  he  would  let  me 
fulfil  my  vow,  I  would  come  back  to  him  as  ready  to  be 
destroyed  as  he  could  be  to  make  me  his  prey.  The  lion 
stepped  aside,  and  I  went  into  the  garden. 

"  I  found  the  old  gardener  all  impatience  for  my  arrival. 
He  flew  to  meet  me,  exclaiming  I  was  an  angel.  I  told 
him  I  was  resigned  to  my  engagement,  but  had  not  long 
to  live.  He  started,  and  asked  what  I  meant.  I  gave  him 
an  account  of  my  meeting  with  the  thief  and  the  lion. 
'  Wretch  that  I  am  ! '  cried  the  gardener ;  '  how  much 
misery  have  I  caused !  But,  bad  as  I  am,  I  am  not  worse 
than  a  thief  or  a  beast  of  prey ;  which  I  should  be,  did  I 
not  absolve  you  from  your  vow,  and  assure  you  the  only 
way  in  which  you  can  now  make  me  happy,  is  by  frrgiv- 
ing  my  wicked  presumption.' 

"  I  was  completely  relieved  by  these  words,  and  granted 
the  forgiveness  desired;  but  having  determined,  in  spite 
of  the  gardener's  remonstrances,  to  keep  my  promises  to 
the  thief  and  the  lion,  I  refused  to  accept  his  protection. 
On  leaving  the  garden,  the  lion  met  me.  '  Noble  lion,'  I 
said,  '  I  am  come,  as  I  promised  yoW  I  then  related  to 
him  how  the  gardener  had  absolved  me  from  my  vow ;  and 


AHMED    THE    COBBLER.  51 

I  expressed  a  hope  that  the  king  of  beasts  would  not  belie 
his  renown  for  generosity.  The  lion  again  stepped  aside, 
and  I  proceeded  to  the  thief,  who  was  still  standing  where 
I  left  him.  I  told  him  I  was  now  in  his  power,  but  that, 
before  he  stripped  me,  I  must  relate  to  him  what  had  hap- 
pened since  our  last  meeting.  Having  heard  me,  he  turn- 
ed away,  saying,  '  I  am  not  meaner  than  a  poor  gardener, 
nor  more  cruel  than  a  hungry  lion :  I  will  not  injure  what 
they  have  respected.' 

"  Delighted  with  my  escapes,  I  returned  to  my  father's 
palace,  where  I  was  united  to  my  cousin,  with  whom  I 
lived  happily  to  his  death ;  persuaded,  however,  that  the 
power  of  human  beings  to  do  good  is  very  limited,  and 
that,  when  they  leave  the  narrow  path  marked  out  for  them 
by  their  Maker,  they  not  only  lose  their  object,  but  often 
wander  far  into  error  and  guilt,  by  attempting  more  than 
it  is  possible  to  perform." 

The  princess  paused,  and  was  glad  to  see  her  guests  so 
enchanted  with  her  story,  that  it  had  banished  every  other 
thought  from  their  minds.  After  a  few  moments,  she  turn- 
ed to  one  of  them,  and  asked,  "  Now,  which,  think  you, 
showed  the  greatest  virtue  in  his  forbearance — the  gar- 
dener, the  thief,  or  the  lion  1 " 

"  The  gardener,  assuredly,"  was  his  answer ;  "  to  aban- 
don so  lovely  a  prize,  when  so  nearly  his  own." 

"And  what  is  your  opinion?"  said  the  princess  to  his 
neighbor. 

"  I  think  the  lion  was  the  most  generous:  be  must  have 
been  very  hungry ;  and,  in  such  a  state,  it  was  great  for- 
bearance to  abstain  from  devouring  so  delicate  a  morsel." 

"  You  both  seem  to  me  quite  wrong,"  said  the  third, 
impatiently  ;  "  the  thief  had  by  far  the  most  merit.  Gra- 
cious heavens !  to  have  within  his  grasp  such  wealth,  and 
to  refrain  from  taking  it!  I  could  not  have  believed  it 
possible,  unless  the  princess  herself  had  assured  us  of 
the  fact." 


52  AHMED    THE    COBBLER. 

The  princess,  now,  assuming  an  air  of  dignity,  said  to 
the  first  who  spoke,  "  You,  I  perceive,  are  an  admirer  of 
the  ladies;"  to  the  second,  "You  are  an  epicure;"  and 
then,  turning  to  the  third,  who  was  already  pale  with  fright, 
"  You,  my  friend,  have  the  emerald  in  your  possession. 
You  have  betrayed  yourself,  and  nothing  but  an  immedi- 
ate confession  can  save  your  life." 

The  guilty  man's  countenance  removed  all  doubt ;  and 
when  the  princess  renewed  her  assurances  of  safety,  he 
threw  himself  at  her  feet,  acknowledged  his  offence,  and 
gave  her  the  emerald,  which  he  carried  concealed  about 
him.  The  princess  rose,  went  to  her  husband,  and  said, 
"  There,  Ahmed,  what  do  you  think  of  the  success  of  my 
calculations  ?  "  She  then  related  the  whole  circumstance, 
and  bade  him  carry  the  jewel  to  her  father,  adding,  "I 
trust  he  will  feel  a  greater  admiration  than  ever  for  my 
husband,  the  wonderful  astrologer !  " 

Ahmed  took  the  emerald  in  silent  astonishment,  and 
went  with  it  to  the  king,  of  whom  he  requested  a  private 
audience.  On  its  being  granted,  he  presented  the  emer- 
ald. The  king,  dazzled  by  its  brilliancy  and  size,  loaded 
his  son-in-law  with  the  most  extravagant  praises,  extolling 
him  as  superior  to  any  astrologer  who  had  ever  been  seen 
in  the  world.  Poor  Ahmed,  conscious  how  little  he  de- 
served such  praise,  threw  himself  at  the  king's  feet,  and 
begged  that  he  might  be  allowed  to  speak  the  truth,  as  he 
was  readier  to  die  than  to  continue  imposing  on  his  majes- 
ty's goodness.  "  You  impose  on  me ! "  said  the  king;  "  that 
is  impossible.  Did  you  not  recover  my  treasure  1  Have 
you  not  brought  me  this  emerald  1 " 

"  True,  O  king!  "  said  Ahmed;  "  I  have  done  so,  but 
without  possessing  that  science  for  which  I  have  gained  a 
reputation."  He  then  told  his  history  from  first  to  last 
with  perfect  sincerity.  The  king  showed  great  displeas- 
ure while  listening  to  his  earlier  adventures;  but  when 
Ahmed  related  the  story  of  the  emerald,  intermingling  his 


AHMED    THE    COBBLER.  53 

tale  with  fervent  expressions  of  admiration  for  the  wonder- 
ful wisdom  and  virtue  of  the  princess,  he  heard  him  with 
delight.  After  he  had  finished,  the  king  summoned  his 
vizier  and  chief  counsellors,  and  desired  that  his  daughter 
also  might  attend ;  and  when  they  were  all  assembled,  he 
spake  as  follows:  "  Daughter,  I  have  learnt  the  history  of 
thy  husband  from  his  own  lips.  I  have  also  heard  much 
in  confirmation  of  the  belief  I  have  long  entertained, 
that  thy  knowledge  and  goodness  are  even  greater  than 
thy  beauty.  They  prove  that  thou  wert  born  to  rule ;  and 
I  only  obey  the  will  of  Heaven,  and  consult  the  happi- 
ness of  my  people,  when  I  resign  my  power  into  thy  hands, 
being  resolved  to  seek  that  repose  which  my  declining 
years  require.  As  to  thy  husband,  thou  wilt  dispose  of 
him  as  it  pleases  thee.  His  birth,  I  always  knew,  was 
low ;  but  I  thought  that  his  wisdom  and  learning  raised 
him  to  a  level  with  the  highest  rank :  these,  it  now  appears, 
he  does  not  possess.  If  thou  deemest  his  alliance  a  dis- 
grace, divorce  him.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  thou  art  will- 
ing to  keep  him  as  thy  husband,  do  so,  and  give  him  such 
share  as  thou  thinkest  fit  in  the  authority  which  I  now 
commit  to  thee." 

The  princess  knelt  to  kiss  her  father's  hand,  and  an- 
swered, "  May  my  father's  life  and  reign  be  prolonged  for 
his  daughter's  happiness,  and  for  that  of  his  subjects !  I 
am  a  weak  woman,  altogether  unequal  to  the  task  which 
his  too  fond  love  would  impose  on  me.  If  my  humble 
counsel  is  listened  to,  my  father  will  continue  to  govern 
his  people,  whose  gratitude  and  veneration  will  make  obe- 
dience light,  and  rule  easy.  As  to  Ahmed,  I  love  and 
esteem  him  :  he  is  sensible,  sincere,  and  pious ;  and  1  deem 
myself  fortunate  in  having  for  my  husband  a  man  so  pe- 
culiarly favored  and  protected  by  Heaven.  What,  my  dear 
father,  are  high  rank  or  brilliant  talents  without  religion 
and  virtue?  They  are  as  plants  which  bear  gaudy  blos- 
soms, but  yield  no  fruit." 
5* 


54  ROUGE    ET    NOIR. 

The  king  was  delighted  with  his  daughter's  wisdom  and 
affection.  "  Your  advice,"  he  said,  "  my  beloved  daughter, 
shall  be  followed.  I  will  continue  to  govern  my  kingdom, 
while  you  and  Ahmed  shall  assist  me  with  your  counsels." 

The  good  cobbler  was  soon  afterwards  nominated 
vizier ;  and  the  same  virtue  and  piety  which  had  obtain- 
ed him  respect  in  the  humblest  sphere  of  life,  caused  him 
to  be  loved  and  esteemed  in  the  high  station  to  which  he 
was  elevated. 

The  designs  of  Sittara  were  discovered,  but  her  guilt 
was  pardoned.  She  was  left  with  a  mere  subsistence,  a 
prey  to  disappointment ;  for  she  continued  to  the  last  to 
sigh  for  that  splendor  she  had  seen  displayed  by  the  chief 
astrologer's  wife  at  the  Hemmam ;  thereby  affording  a 
salutary  lesson  to  those  who  admit  envy  into  their  bosoms, 
and  endeavor  to  attain  their  ends  by  unreasonable  and 
unjustifiable  means. 


ROUGE    ET  NOIR. 

"  Could  I  forget 


What  I  have  been,  I  might  the  better  bear 

What  I  am  destined  to.      I'm  not  the  first 

That  have  been  wretched — but  to  think  how  much 

I  have  been  happier !  " SOUTHERN. 

NEVER  shall  I  forget  that  accursed  27th  of  September: 
it  is  burnt  in  upon  the  tablet  of  my  memory ;  graven  in 
letters  of  blood  upon  my  heart.  I  look  back  to  it  with  a 
strangely-compounded  feeling  of  horror  and  delight ;  of 
horror  at  the  black  series  of  wretched  days  and  sleepless 
nights  of  which  it  was  the  fatal  precursor;  of  delight  at 
that  previous  career  of  tranquillity  and  self-respect  which 
it  was  destined  to  terminate — alas,  forever ! 


ROUGE    ET    NOIR.  55 

On  that  day,  I  had  been  about  a  fortnight  in  Paris,  and, 
in  passing  through  the  garden  of  the  Palais  Royal,  had 
stopped  to  admire  the  beautiful  jet  d'cau  in  its  centre,  on 
which  the  sun-beams  were  falling  so  as  to  produce  a  small 
rainbow,  when  I  was  accosted  by  my  old  friend,  major 

E ,  of  the  fusileers.  After  the  first  surprises  and 

salutations,  as  he  found  that  the  busines?  of  procuring 
apartments  and  settling  my  family  had  prevented  my  see- 
ing many  of  the  Parisian  lions,  he  offered  himself  as  my 
Cicerone,  proposing  that  we  should  begin  by  making  the 
circuit  of  the  building  that  surrounded  us.  With  its  his- 
tory, and  the  remarkable  events  of  which  it  had  been  the 
scene,  I  was  already  conversant;  but  of  its  detail  and  ap- 
propriation, which,  as  he  assured  me,  constituted  its  sole 
interest  in  the  eyes  of  the  Parisians,  I  was  completely 
ignorant. 

After  taking  a  cursory  view  of  most  of  the  sights  above 
ground  in  this  multifarious  pile,  I  was  conducted  to  some 
of  its  subterraneous  wonders, — to  the  Cafe  du  Sauvage, 
where  a  man  is  hired,  for  six  francs  a  night,  to  personate 
that  character,  by  beating  a  great  drum,  with  all  the  grin- 
ning, ranting,  and  raving  of  a  madman ; — to  the  Cafe  des 
Aveugles,  whose  numerous  orchestra  is  entirely  composed 
of  blind  men  and  women ; — and  to  the  Cafe  des  Varietes, 
whose  small  theatre,  as  well  as  its  saloons  and  labyrinths, 
are  haunted  by  a  set  of  sirens  not  less  dangerous  than 
the  nymphs  who  assailed  Ulysses.  Emerging  from  these 
haunts,  we  found  that  a  heavy  shower  was  falling;  and 
while  we  paraded  once  more  the  stone  gallery,  my  friend 
suddenly  exclaimed,  as  his  eye  fell  upon  the  numbers  of 
the  houses — "  One  hundred  and  fifty-four! — positively  we 
are  going  away  without  visiting  one  of  the "  gaming- 
houses was  the  meaning  of  the  term  he  employed,  though 
he  expressed  it  by  a  word  that  the  fashionable  preacher 
never  mentioned  to  "  ears  polite." — "  I  have  never  yet 
entered,"  said  I,  "  a  Pandsemonium  of  this  sort,  and  I 


56  ROUGE    ET    NOIR. 

never  will: — I  refrain  from  it  upon  principle; — '  Principiis 
obsta.'  I  am  of  Dr.  Johnson's  temperament ;  I  can  prac- 
tise abstinence,  but  not  temperance ;  and  every  body 
knows  that  prevention  is  better  than  cure."  "  Do  you  re- 
member," replied  E ,  "  what  the  same  Dr.  Johnson 

said  to  Boswell — '  My  dear  sir,  clear  your  mind  of  cant.' 
I  do  not  ask  you  to  play ;  but  you  must  have  often  read, 
when  you  were  a  good  little  boy,  that  '  vice,  to  be  hated, 
needs  but  to  be  seen,'  and  cannot  have  forgotten  that  the 
Spartans  sometimes  made  their  slaves  drunk,  and  showed 
them  to  their  children  to  inculcate  sobriety.  Love  of  vir- 
tue is  best  secured  by  a  hatred  of  its  opposite :  to  hate  it, 
you  must  see  it :  besides,  a  man  of  the  world  should  see 
every  thing."  "  But  it  is  so  disreputable,"  I  rejoined. 

— "  How   completely  John-Bullish  !  "  exclaimed   E . 

"  Disreputable  !  why,  I  am  going  to  take  you  to  an  estab- 
lishment recognized,  regulated,  aud  taxed  by  the  govern- 
ment, the  upholders  of  religion  and  social  order,  who 
annually  derive  six  millions  of  francs  from  this  source  of 
revenue ;  and  as  to  the  company,  I  promise  you  that  you 
shall  encounter  men  of  the  first  respectability,  of  all  sects 
and  parties ;  for,  in  France,  every  one  gambles  at  these  sa- 
lons,— except  the  devotees,  and  they  play  at  home." — He 
took  my  arm,  and  I  walked  up  stairs  with  him,  merely 
ejaculating,  as  we  reached  the  door,  "  Mind,  I  don't  play." 
Entering  an  ante-room,  we  were  received  by  two  or 
three  servants,  who  took  our  sticks  and  hats,  for  which  we 
received  tickets;  and  by  the  number  suspended  around,  I 
perceived  that  there  was  a  tolerably  numerous  attendance 
within.  Roulette  was  the  game  to  which  the  first  cham- 
ber was  dedicated.  Tn  the  middle  of  a  long  green  table 
was  a  circular  excavation,  resembling  a  large  gilt  basin, 
in  whose  centre  was  a  rotatory  apparatus  turning  an  ivory 
ball  in  a  groove,  which,  after  sundry  gyrations,  descended 
to  the  bottom  of  the  basin,  where  there  was  a  round  of 
little  numbered  compartments  or  pigeon-holes,  into  one  of 


ROUGE    ET    XO1K.  57 

which  it  finally  settled,  when  the  number  was  proclaimed 
aloud.  Beside  this  apparatus,  there  was  painted  on  the 
green  baize  a  table  of  various  successive  numbers,  \vith 
divisions  for  odd  and  even,  &c.,  on  which  the  players  de- 
posited their  various  stakes.  He  who  was  in  the  compart- 
ment of  the  proclaimed  number  was  a  winner;  and  if  he 
had  sino-led  out  that  individual  one,  which  of  course  was 

O  * 

of  very  rare  occurrence,  his  deposit  was  doubled  I  know 
not  how  many  times.  The  odd  or  even  declared  their 
own  fate :  they  were  lost  or  doubled.  This  altar  of  chance 
had  but  few  votaries;  and,  merely  stopping  a  moment  to 
admire  the  handsome  decorations  of  the  room,  we  passed 
on  into  the  next. 

"  This,"  whispered  my  companion, — for  there  was  a  dead 
silence  in  the  apartment,  although  the  long  table  was  en- 
tirely surrounded  by  people  playing, — "  this  is  only  the 
silver  room ;  you  may  deposit  here  as  low  as  a  five  franc 
piece  :  let  us  pass  on  to  the  next,  where  none  play  but 
those  who  will  risk  bank-notes  or  gold."  Casting  a  pass- 
ing glance  at  these  comparatively  humble  gamesters,  who 
were,  however,  all  too  deeply  absorbed  to  move  their  eyes 
from  the  cards,  I  followed  my  conductor  into  the  sanctuary 
of  the  gilded  Mammon. 

Here  was  a  rouge  et  noir  table,  exactly  like  the  one  I 
had  just  quitted.  In  its  centre  was  a  profuse  display  of 
gold  in  bowls  and  rouleaus,  with  thick  piles  of  bank-notes, 
on  either  side  of  which  sat  a  partner  of  the  bank  and  an 
assistant,  the  dragon  guards  of  this  Hesperian  fruit.  An 
oblong  square,  painted  on  each  end  of  the  green  table, 
exhibited  three  divisions,  one  for  rouge,  another  for  noir, 
and  the  centre  was  for  the  stakes  of  those  who  speculated 
upon  the  color  of  the  first  and  last  card,  with  other  rami- 
fications of  the  art,  which  it  would  be  tedious  to  describe. 
Not  one  of  the  chairs  around  the  table  was  unoccupied, 
and  I  observed  that  each  banker  and  assistant  was  provid- 
ed with  a  rateau,  or  rake,  somewhat  resembling  a  garden 


58  ROUGE    ET    NOIR. 

hoe,  several  of  which  were  also  dispersed  about,  that  the 
respective  winners  might  withdraw  the  gold  without  the 
objectionable  intervention  of  fingers.  When  the  stakes 
are  all  deposited,  the  dealer,  one  of  the  bankers  in  the  cen- 
tre, cries  out,  "  Le  jeu  est  fait,"  after  which  nothing  can 
be  added  or  withdrawn  ;  and  then,  taking  a  packet  of  cards 
from  a  basket  full  before  him,  he  proceeds  to  deal.  Thirty- 
one  is  the  number  of  the  game :  the  color  of  the  first  card 
determines  whether  the  first  row  be  black  or  red :  the 
dealer  turns  up  till  the  numbers  on  the  cards  exceed  thirty- 
one,  when  he  lays  down  a  second  row  in  the  same  man- 
ner; and  whichever  is  nearest  to  that  amount  is  the  win- 
ning row.  If  both  come  to  the  same,  he  cries  "  Apres," 
and  recommences  with  fresh  cards ;  but  if  each  division 
should  turn  up  thirty-one,  the  bank  takes  half  of  the  whole 
money  deposited,  as  a  forfeit  from  the  players.  In  this 
consists  their  certain  profit,  which  has  been  estimated  at 
ten  per  cent,  upon  the  total  stakes.  If  the  red  loses,  the 
banker  on  that  side  rakes  all  the  deposits  into  his  treasury ; 
if  it  wins,  he  throws  down  the  number  of  Napoleons  or 
notes  necessary  to  cover  the  lodgments  made  by  the  play- 
ers, each  one  of  whom  rakes  off  his  prize,  or  leaves  it  for 

a  fresh  venture.     E explained  to  me  the  functions  of 

the  different  members  of  the  establishment — the  inspector, 
the  croupier,  the  tailleur,  the  messieurs  de  la  chambre, 
&c.,  and  also  the  meaning  of  the  ruled  card  and  pins 
which  every  one  held  before  him,  consulting  it  with  the 
greatest  intenseness,  and  occasionally  calling  to  the  peo- 
ple in  attendance  for  a  fresh  supply.  This  horoscope  was 
divided  by  perpendicular  lines  into  columns,  headed  with 
an  alternate  R  and  N,  for  Rouge  and  Noir ;  and  the  pin  is 
employed  to  perforate  the  card  as  each  color  wins,  as  a 
groundwork  for  establishing  some  calculation  in  that 
elaborate  delusion  termed  the  doctrine  of  chances.  Some, 
having  several  of  these  records  before  them,  closely  pierc- 
ed all  over,  were  summing  up  the  results  upon  paper,  as 


ROUGE    ET    NOIR.  59 

if  determined  to  play  a  game  of  chance  without  leaving 
any  thing  to  hazard ;  and  none  seemed  willing  to  adven- 
ture without  having  some  species  of  sanction  from  these 
Sibylline  leaves. 

An  involuntary  sickness  and  loathing  of  heart  came 
over  me  as  I  contemplated  this  scene,  and  observed  the 
sofas  in  an  adjoining  room,  which  the  Parisians,  who  turn 
every  thing  into  a  joke,  have  christened  "  the  hospital  for 
the  wounded."  There,  thought  I  to  myself,  many  a 
wretch  has  thrown  himself  down  in  anguish  and  despair 
of  soul,  cursing  himself  and  the  world  with  fearful  impre- 
cations, or  blaspheming  in  that  silent  bitterness  of  spirit 
which  is  more  terrific  than  words.  I  contrasted  the  gaudy 
decorations  and  paneled  mirrors  that  surrounded  me  with 
the  smoky  and  blackened  ceiling — sad  evidence  of  the 
nocturnal  lamps  lighted  up  at  the  shrine  of  this  Baal,  and 
of  the  unhallowed  worship  prosecuted  through  the  livelong 
night.  Turning  to  the  window,  I  beheld  the  sun  shining 
from  the  bright  blue  sky  :  the  rain  was  over,  the  birds  were 
singing  in  the  trees,  and  the  leaves  fluttering  in  the  wind  ; 
the  external  gayety  giving  the  character  of  an  appalling 
antithesis  to  the  painful  silence,  immovable  attitudes,  and 
spell-bound  looks  of  the  care-worn  figures  within.  One 
man,  a  German,  was  contending  against  a  run  of  ill-luck 
with  a  dogged  obstinacy  that  was  obviously  making  deep 
inroads  upon  his  purse  and  his  peace:  for,  though  his  face 
was  invisible  from  being  bent  over  his  perforated  card,  the 
drops  of  perspiration  standing  upon  his  forehead  betrayed 
the  inward  agitation.  All  the  losers  were  struggling  to 
suppress  emotions  which  still  revealed  themselves  by  the 
working  of  some  disobedient  muscle,  the  compression  of 
the  lips,  the  sardonic  grin,  or  the  glaring  wrath  of  the 
eye ;  while  the  winners  belied  their  assumed  indifference 
by  flushed  cheeks  and  an  expression  of  anxious  triumph. 
Two  or  three  forlorn  operators,  who  had  been  cleaned  out, 
as  the  phrase  is,  and  condemned  to  idleness,  were  eyeing 


60  ROUGE    ET    NO1R. 

their  more  fortunate  neighbors  with  a  leer  of  malignant 
envy ;  while  the  bankers  and  their  assistants,  in  the  cer- 
tainty of  their  profitable  trade,  exhibited  a  calm  and  watch- 
ful cunning,  though  their  features,  pale  and  sodden,  be- 
trayed the  effect  of  confinement,  heated  rooms,  and  mid- 
night vigils.  E informed  me  that  the  frequenters  of 

these  houses  were  authorized  to  call  for  refreshments  of 
any  description,  but  no  one  availed  himself  of  the  privi- 
lege ;  the  "  auri  sacra  fames,"  the  pervading  appetite  of 
the  place,  had  swallowed  up  every  other.  The  very 
thought  revolted  me.  What !  eat  and  drink  in  this  arena 
of  the  hateful  passions !  in  this  fatal  room,  from  which 
many  a  suicide  has  rushed  out  to  grasp  the  self-destroying 
pistol,  or  plunge  into  the  darkness  of  the  wave !  in  this 
room,  which  is  denounced  to  Heaven  by  the  widow's  tears 
and  the  orphan's  maledictions !  Revolving  these  thoughts 
in  my  mind,  1  surveyed  once  more  the  faces  before  me, 
and  could  not  help  exclaiming,  "  What  a  hideous  study  of 
human  nature !  " 

"  As  we  have  employed  so  much  time,"  said  E , 

"  in  taking  the  latitude,  or  rather  the  longitude,  of  these 
various  phizes,  we  shall  be  expected  to  venture  some- 
thing :  I  will  throw  down  a  Napoleon,  as  a  sop  to  Cerbe- 
rus, and  will  then  convoy  you  home."  "  Nay,"  replied  I, 
"  it  was  for  my  instruction  we  came  hither :  the  lesson  I 
have  received  is  well  worth  the  money ;  so  put  down  this 
piece  of  gold,  and  let  us  begone."  "  Let  us  at  least  wait 
till  we  have  lost  it,"  he  resumed ;  "  and  in  the  mean  time 
we  will  take  our  places  at  the  table."  I  felt  that  I  blush- 
ed as  I  sat  down,  and  was  about  to  deposit  my  offering 
hap  hazard,  when  my  companion  stopped  my  hand,  and, 
borrowing  a  perforated  card,  bade  me  remark,  that  the 
red  and  black  had  zig-zagged,  or  won  alternately  for  four- 
teen times ;  and  that  there  had  subsequently  been  a  long 
run  upon  the  black,  which  would  now  probably  cross  over 
to  the  other  color ;  from  all  which  premises  he  deduced 


ROUGE    ET    NOIR.  61 

that  I  should  venture  upon  the  red ;  which  I  accordingly 
did.  Sir  Balaam's  devil,  who  "  now  tempts  by  making 
rich,  not  making  poor,"  was,  I  verily  believe,  hovering 
over  my  devoted  head  at  that  instant;  my  deposit  was 
doubled,  and  I  was  preparing  to  decamp  with  my  two 
Naps,  when  my  adviser  insisted  upon  my  not  balking  my 
luck,  as  there  would  probably  be  a  run  upon  the  red ;  and 
I  suffered  my  stake  to  remain,  and  go  on  doubling  until  I 
had  won  ten  or  twelve  times  in  succession.  "Now," 

cried  E ,  "  I  should  advise  you  to  pocket  the  affront, 

and  be  satisfied."  Adopting  his  counsel,  I  could  hardly 
believe  his  assertion,  or  my  own  eyes,  when  he  handed 
me  over  bank-notes  to  the  amount  of  twenty  thousand 
francs,  observing  that  I  had  made  a  tolerably  successful 
debut. 

Returning  home  in  some  perturbation  and  astonishment 
of  mind,  I  resolved  to  prepare  a  little  surprise  for  my  wife  ; 
and,  spreading  the  bank-notes  upon  the  table  with  as  much 
display  as  possible,  I  told  her,  upon  her  entering  the  room, 
how  I  had  won  them ;  and,  inquiring  whether  Aladdin, 
with  his  wonderful  lamp,  could  have  spent  two  or  three 
hours  more  profitably,  I  stated  my  intention  of  appropria- 
ting a  portion  of  it  to  her  use  in  the  purchase  of  a  hand- 
some birth-day  present.  In  a  moment,  the  blood  rush- 
ed to  her  face,  and  as  quickly  receded,  leaving  it  of  an 
ashy  paleness,  when  she  spurned  the  notes  from  her,  ex- 
claiming, with  a  solemn  terror,  "  I  would  as  soon  touch 
the  thirty  pieces  of  silver  for  which  Judas  betrayed  his 
Master."  Her  penetrating  mind  instantly  saw  the  danger 
to  which  I  had  exposed  myself,  and  her  fond  heart  as 
quickly  gave  the  alarm  to  her  feelings ;  but  in  a  few  sec- 
onds, she  threw  her  arms  around  me,  and  ejaculated,  as 
the  tears  ran  down  her  cheek,  "  Forgive  me,  my  dear 
Charles;  pardon  my  vehemence,  my  ingratitude;  I  have 
a  present  to  ask,  a  boon  to  implore — promise  that  you  will 
grant  it  me."  "Most  willingly,"  I  rejoined,  "if  it  be  in 
6 


62  ROUGE    ET    ROIR. 

my  power."  "  Give  me,  then,  your  pledge,  never  to  play 
again."  "  Cheerfully,"  continued  I,  for  I  had  already 
formed  that  resolution.  She  kissed  me  with  many  affec- 
tionate thanks,  adding  that  I  had  made  her  completely 
happy.  I  believe  it,  for  at  that  moment  I  felt  so  myself. 

Many  men,  who  are  candid  and  upright  in  arguing  with 
others,  are  the  most  faithless  and  Jesuitical  of  casuists  in 
chopping  logic  with  themselves.  Let  no  one  trust  his 
head  in  a  contest  with  the  heart :  the  former,  suppressing 
or  perverting  whatever  is  disagreeable  to  the  latter,  will 
assume  a  demure  and  sincere  conviction,  while  it  has  all 
along  been  playing  booty,  and  furnishing  weapons  to  its 
adversary.  The  will  must  be  honest,  if  we  wish  the  judg- 
ment to  be  so.  A  tormenting  itch  for  following  up  my 
good  luck,  as  I  termed  it,  set  me  upon  devising  excuses 
for  violating  my  pledge  to  my  wife ;  and  no  shuffling  or 
quibbling  was  too  contemptible  for  my  purpose.  I  had 
promised  never  to  play  again — "  at  that  house ;"  or,  if  I 
had  not  actually  said  so,  I  meant  to  say  so :  there  could  be 
no  forfeiture  of  my  word,  therefore,  if  I  went  to  another. 
Miserable  sophistry!  yet,  wretched  as  it  was,  it  satisfied 
my  conscience  for  the  moment ;  so  easily  is  a  weak  man 
deluded  into  criminal  indulgence.  Fortified  with  such 
valid  arguments,  I  made  my  debut  at  the  Salon  des  Etran- 
gers,  and,  after  a  two  hours'  sitting,  had  the  singular  good 
luck  to  return  home  a  winner  of  nearly  as  much  as 
I  had  gained  on  the  first  day.  Success,  for  once,  made 
me  moderate :  in  the  humility  of  my  prosperous  play,  I 
resolved  only  to  continue  till  I  had  won  ten  thousand 
pounds,  when  I  would  communicate  my  adventures  to  my 
wife,  with  a  solemn  abjuration  of  the  pursuit  in  future ; 
and,  as  I  considered  myself  in  possession  of  the  certain 
secret  of  winning  whatever  I  pleased,  I  took  credit  to  my- 
self for  my  extreme  moderation.  From  Frascati,  the 
scene  of  my  third  attempt,  by  a  lucky,  or  rather  unlucky 
fatality,  which  my  subsequent  experience  only  renders  the 


ROUGE    ET    NOIR.  63 

more  wonderful,  I  retired  with  a  sum  exceeding  the  whole 
of  my  previous  profits;  when,  like  the  tiger  who  is  render- 
ed insatiate  by  the  taste  of  blood,  I  instantly  became  rav- 
enous for  larger  riches;  and,  already  repenting  the  paltry 
limitation  of  the  day  before,  determined  on  proceeding 
until  I  had  doubled  its  amount.  Another  day's  luck,  and 
even  this  would  have  been  spurned ;  for  neither  Johnson's 
Sir  Epicure  Mammon,  nor  Massinger's  Luke,  nor  Pope's 
Sir  Balaam,  underwent  a  more  rapid  developement  of 
latent  ambition.  Indistinct  visions  of  grandeur  floated 
before  my  eyes;  my  senses  already  seemed  to  be  steeped 
in  a  vague  magnificence ;  and,  after  hesitating,  in  a  sort 
of  waking  dream,  between  Wanstead  House  and  Font- 
hill, — one  of  which  I  held  to  be  too  near,  and  the  other  too 
distant  from  London, — I  dwelt  complacently  on  the  idea  of 
building  a  mansion  at  some  intermediate  station,  which 
should  surpass  the  splendor  of  both.  Sleep  presenting  to 
me  the  same  images  through  a  magnifying  glass,  I  went 
forth  next  morning  to  the  accomplishment  of  my  destiny 
with  an  exaltation  of  mind  little  short  of  delirium. 

Weak  and  wicked  reveries  ! — A  single  turn  of  Fortune's 
wheel  reduced  me,  not  to  reason,  but  to  an  opposite  ex- 
treme of  mortification  and  despondence.  A  run  of  ill 
luck  swept  away,  in  one  hour,  more  than  half  my  gains; 
and,  unfortunately,  losing  my  temper  still  faster  than  my 
money,  I  kept  doubling  my  stakes  in  the  blindness  of  my 
rage,  and  quitted  the  table  at  night,  not  only  lightened  of 
all  my  suddenly-acquired  wealth,  but  loser  of  a  considera- 
ble sum  besides.  I  could  now  judge  by  experience  of  the 
bitterness  of  soul  that  I  had  lately  inflicted  upon  those 
who  had  lost  what  I  had  won,  and  inwardly  cursed  the 
pursuit  whose  gratifications  could  only  spring  from  the 
miseries  of  others;  but  so  far  from  abandoning  this  inev- 
itable see-saw  of  wretchedness,  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  de- 
frauded of  my  just  property,  and  burned  with  the  desire 
of  taking  my  revenge.  The  heart-sickening  detail  of  my 


64  ROUGE    ET    NOIR. 

infirmity,  my  reverses,  and  my  misery,  need  not  be  follow- 
ed up.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  a  passion,  a  fury,  an  actual 
phrensy  of  play,  absorbed  every  faculty  of  my  soul :  mine 
was  worse  than  a  Promethean  fate;  I  was  gnawed  and 
devoured  by  an  inward  fire  which  nothing  could  allay. 
Alas !  not  even  poverty  and  the  want  of  materials  could 
quench  it.  In  my  career  of  prosperity,  I  felt  not  the 
fraud  I  was  practising  upon  my  wife,  for  I  meant  to  make 
my  peace  with  ten  or  twenty  thousand  pounds  in  my 
hand,  and  a  sincere  renunciation  of  gaming  in  my  heart; 
but,  now  that  I  was  bringing  ruin  upon  her  and  my  chil- 
dren, the  sense  of  my  falsehood  and  treachery  imbittering 
the  anguish  of  my  losses,  plunged  me  into  unutterable  re- 
morse and  agony  of  soul.  Still,  I  wanted  courage  to  make 
the  fatal  revelation,  and  at  last  only  imparted  it  to  her  in 
the  cowardice  of  impending  disgrace. 

Madame  Deshoulieres  says  very  truly,  that  gamesters 
begin  by  being  dupes,  and  end  by  being  knaves ;  and  I  am 
about  to  confirm  it  by  an  avowal  to  which  nothing  should 
have  impelled  me  but  the  hope  of  deterring  others  by  an 
exposure  of  my  own  delinquency.  A  female  relation  had 
remitted  me  seven  hundred  pounds  to  purchase  into  the 
French  funds;  with  which  sum  in  my  pocket  I  unfortu- 
nately called  at  the  Salon  des  Etrangers,  in  my  way  to  the 
stock-broker's;  and,  my  evil  genius  suggesting  to  me  that 
there  was  a  glorious  opportunity  of  recovering  my  heavy 
losses,  I  snatched  the  notes  from  my  pocket,  threw  them 

on  the  table  just  before  the  dealer  began and  lost ! 

Stunned  by  the  blow,  I  went  home  in  a  state  of  calm  de- 
spair, communicated  the  whole  to  my  wife  in  as  few  words 
as  possible,  and  ended  by  declaring  that  she  was  a  beggar, 
and  her  husband  disgraced  forever.  "  Not  yet,  my  dear 
Charles,"  replied  the  generous  woman,  her  eyes  beaming 
with  an  affectionate  forgiveness, — "  not  yet ;  we  may  still 
exclaim  with  the  French  king  after  the  battle  of  Pavia, 
'  We  have  lost  every  thing  but  our  honor ;  and,  while  we 


ROUGE    ET    NOIR.  65 

retain  that,  our  losses  are  but  as  a  grain  of  sand.'  We 
may  be  depressed  by  fortune,  but  we  can  only  be  dis- 
graced by  ourselves.  As  to  this  seven  hundred  pounds — 
take  my  jewels — they  will  sell  for  more  than  is  required ; 
and  if  our  present  misfortunes  induce  you  to  fly  from 
Paris,  and  abandon  this  fatal  pursuit,  they  will  assured- 
ly become  the  greatest  blessings  of  our  life." 

No  reproach  ever  passed  her  lips,  or  lingered  in  her 
eye ;  nor  did  I  fail  to  observe  the  delicacy  which,  min- 
gling up  her  own  fate  with  mine,  strove  to  soothe  my  feel- 
ings, by  disguising  my  individual  guilt  under  the  cloak  of 
a  joint  misfortune.  Noble-minded  woman !  Mezentius 
himself  could  not  have  devised  a  more  cruel  fate  than  to 
tie  thee  to  a  soul  so  dead  to  shame,  and  so  defunct  in 
gratitude  as  mine. 

Will  not  the  reader  loathe  and  detest  me,  even  worse 
than  I  do  myself,  when  I  inform  him,  that,  in  return  for  all 
this  magnanimity,  I  had  the  detestable  baseness  to  linger  in 
Paris,  to  haunt  the  gaming-table,  to  venture  the  wretched 
drainings  of  my  purse  in  the  silver  room,  to  become  an 
habitual  borrower  of  paltry  sums  under  pledges  of  repay- 
ment which  I  knew  I  had  not  the  means  of  redeeming,  and 
to  submit  tamely  to  the  indignity  of  palpable  cuts  from 
my  acquaintance  in  the  public  streets  ?  From  frequent- 
ly encountering  at  the  salons,  I  had  formed  a  slight  friend- 
ship with  Lord  T ,  Lord  F ,  Sir  G W , 

Colonel  T ,  and  particularly  with  poor  S 1,  before 

he  had  consummated  the  ruin  of  his  fine  fortune,  and  de- 
bilitated his  frame  by  paralysis,  brought  on  by  anxiety ; 
and  I  was  upon  terms  of  intimacy  with  others  of  my 
countrymen,  who,  with  various  success,  but  much  more 
ample  means  than  myself,  were  making  offerings  to  the 
demon  of  Rouge  r.t  Noir.  Should  this  brief  memoir  fall 
beneath  the  eye  of  any  of  my  quondam  friends,  they  may 
not  impossibly  derive  benefit  from  its  perusal :  at  all  events, 
they  may  be  pleased  to  know  that  I  have  not  forgotten 
6* 


66  ROUGE    ET    NOTR. 

their  kindnesses.  I  am  aware  that  I  abused  their  assist- 
ance, and  wore  out  their  patience ;  but  I  never  anticipa- 
ted the  horror  to  which  the  exhaustion  of  my  own  means, 
and  the  inability  to  extort  more  from  others,  would  reduce 
me.  The  anguish  of  my  losses,  the  misery  of  my  degra- 
dation, the  agony  of  mind  with  which  I  reflected  upon  my 
impoverished  wife  and  family,  were  nothing,  absolutely 
nothing,  compared  to  the  racking  torment  of  being  com- 
pelled to  refrain  from  gambling.  It  sounds  incredible, 
but  it  is  strictly  true.  To  sit  at  the  table  with  empty 
pockets,  and  to  see  others  playing,  was  absolutely  insup- 
portable. I  envied  even  the  heaviest  losers  :  could  I  have 
found  an  antagonist,  I  would  have  gambled  for  an  eye,  an 
arm,  a  leg,  for  life  itself.  A  thousand  demons  seemed  to  be 
gnawing  c.t  my  heart :  I  believed  I  was  mad  :  I  even  hope 
I  was. 

Yes  ;  I  have  tasked  myself  to  detail  my  moral  degrada- 
tion and  utter  prostration  of  character,  with  a  fidelity  wor- 
thy of  Rousseau  himself;  and  I  feel  it  a  duty  not  to  shrink 
from  my  complete  exposure.  After  a  night  passed  in  the 
state  of  mind  I  have  been  describing,  in  one  of  those 
haunts  which  I  was  justly  entitled  to  denominate  a  hell,  I 
wandered  out  at  day-break  towards  the  Pont  de  Jena,  as 
if  I  could  cool  my  parched  lips  and  burning  brain  by  the 
heavy  shower  that  was  then  falling.  As  the  dripping  rus- 
tics passed  me  on  their  market-horses,  singing  and  whis- 
tling, their  happiness,  seeming  to  be  a  mockery  of  my 
wretchedness,  filled  me  with  a  malignant  rage.  By  the 
time  I  had  reached  the  bridge,  the  rain  had  ceased  :  the 
rising  sun,  glancing  upon  the  river,  threw  a  bloom  over 
the  woods  in  the  direction  of  Sevres  and  St.  Cloud,  and 
the  birds  were  piping  in  the  air.  Ever  a  passionate  ad- 
mirer of  Nature,  her  charms  stole  me  for  a  moment  from 
myself;  but,  presently,  my  thoughts  reverting  from  the 
heaven  without  to  the  hell  within,  I  gnashed  my  teeth,  and 
fell  back  into  a  double  bitterness  and  despair  of  soul. 


ROUGE    ET    NOIR.  67 

I  have  always  been  a  believer  in  sudden  and  irresistible 
impulses — an  idea  which  will  not  appear  ridiculous  to  those 
who  are  conversant  with  the  records  of  crime.  A  portrait 
of  Sarah  Malcolm,  the  murderess,  which  I  had  seen  many 
years  ago  in  the  possession  of  Lord  Mulgrave,  leading  me 
to  the  perusal  of  her  trial  and  execution;  in  the  Newgate 
Calendar,  induced  me  to  give  perfect  credit  to  the  aver- 
ment, that  the  idea  of  the  crime  came  suddenly  into  her 
head  without  the  least  solicitation,  and  that  she  felt  driven 
forward  to  its  accomplishment  by  some  invisible  power. 
Similar  declarations  from  many  other  offenders  offer 
abundant  confirmation  of  the  same  fact ;  and  it  will  be  in 
the  recollection  of  many,  that  the  murderer  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Bonar  at  Chiselhurst,  repeatedly  declared  that  he 
had  never  dreamt  of  the  enormity  ten  minutes  before  its 
commission,  but  that  the  thought  suddenly  rushed  into  his 
mind,  and  pushed  him  forward  to  the  bloody  deed.  Many 
people  cannot  look  over  a  precipice  without  feeling  tempt- 
ed to  throw  themselves  down.  T  know  a  most  affectionate 
father,  who  never  approaches  a  window  with  his  infant 
child,  without  being  haunted  by  solicitations  to  cast  it  into 
the  street;  and  a  gentleman  of  unimpeachable  honor,  who, 
if  he  happens,  in  walking  the  highway,  to  see  a  note-case 
or  handkerchief  emerging  from  a  passenger's  pocket,  is 
obliged  to  stop  short  or  cross  over  the  way,  so  vehemently 
does  he  feel  impelled  to  withdraw  them.  These  "  toys  of 
desperation,"  generated  in  the  giddiness  of  the  mind  at 
the  bare  imagination  of  any  horror,  drive  it  to  commit  the 
reality  as  a  relief  from  the  fearful  vision,  upon  the  same 
principle  that  delinquents  voluntarily  deliver  themselves 
up  to  justice,  because  death  itself  is  less  intolerable  than 
the  fear  of  it.  Let  it  not  be  imagined  that  I  am  seeking 
to  screen  any  of  these  unhappy  men  from  the  conse- 
quences of  their  hallucination ;  I  am  merely  asserting  a 
singular  property  of  the  mind,  of  which  I  myself  am 
about  to  record  a  frightful  confirmation. 


68  ROUGE    ET    NOIR. 

Standing  on  the  bridge,  and  turning  away  my  looks 
from  the  landscape  in  that  despair  of  heart  which  I  have 
described,  my  downcast  eyes  fell  upon  the  waters  gliding 
placidly  beneath  me.  They  seemed  to  invite  me  to  quench 
the  burning  fire  with  which  I  was  consumed :  the  river 
whispered  to  me,  with  a  distinct  utterance,  that  peace  and 
oblivion  were  to  be  found  in  its  Lethean  bed :  every  mus- 
cle of  my  body  was  animated  by  an  instant  and  insupera- 
ble impulse ;  and  within  half  a  minute  from  its  first  mad- 
dening sensation,  I  had  climbed  over  the  parapet,  and 
plunged  headlong  into  the  water.  The  gushing  of  waves 
in  my  ears,  and  the  rapid  flashing  of  innumerable  lights 
before  my  eyes,  are  the  last  impressions  I  recollect.  Into 
the  circumstances  of  my  preservation  I  never  had  the 
heart  to  inquire :  when  consciousness  revisited  me,  I  found 
myself  lying  upon  my  own  bed,  with  my  wife  weeping  be- 
side me,  though  she  instantly  assumed  a  cheerful  look, 
and  told  me  that  I  had  met  with  a  dreadful  accident,  hav- 
ing fallen  into  the  river,  when  leaning  over  to  examine 
some  object  beneath.  That  she  knows  the  whole  truth, 
I  am  perfectly  convinced ;  but  we  scrupulously  avoid  the 
subject,  by  an  understood,  though  unexpressed  compact. 
It  is  added  in  her  mind  to  the  long  catalogue  of  my  of- 
fences, never  to  be  alluded  to,  and,  alas !  never  to  be  for- 
gotten. She  left  my  bedside  for  a  moment,  to  return  with 
my  children,  who  rushed  up  to  me  with  a  cry  of  joy ;  and 
as  they  contended  for  the  first  kiss,  and  inquired  after  my 
health  with  glistening  eyes,  the  cruelty,  the  atrocity  of 
my  cowardly  attempt  struck  with  a  withering  remorse  upon 
my  heart. 


THE   COMMON    LOT.  69 


THE   COMMON  LOT. 

ONCE  in  the  flight  of  ages  past 

There  lived  a  man — and  who  was  he  ? 

Mortal !  howe'er  thy  lot  be  cast, 
That  man  resembled  thee  ! 

Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth, 
The  land  in  which  he  died  unknown, 

His  name  hath  perished  from  the  earth, 
This  truth  survives  alone — 

That  joy,  and  grief,  and  hope,  and  fear, 
Alternate  triumphed  in  his  breast ; 

His  bliss  and  woe,  a  smile,  a  tear ' 
Oblivion  hides  the  rest. 

The  bounding  pulse,  the  languid  limb, 
The  changing  spirits'  rise  and  fall, 

We  know  that  these  were  felt  by  him, 
For  these  are  felt  by  all. 

He  suffered — but  his  pangs  are  o'er  ; 

Enjoyed — but  his  delights  are  fled  ; 
Had  friends — his  friends  are  now  no  more, 

And  foes — his  foes  are  dead. 

He  loved — but  whom  he  loved,  the  grave 
Hath  lost  in  its  unconscious  womb  ; 

O  she  was  fair !  but  nought  could  save 
Her  beauty  from  the  tomb. 


70 


HOPE. 

The  rolling  seasons,  day  and  night, 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  the  earth  and  main, 

Ere  while  his  portion,  life  and  light, 
To  him  exist — in  vain. 

He  saw  whatever  thou  hast  seen, 
Encountered  all  that  troubles  thee, 

He  was — whatever  thou  hast  been, 
He  is — what  thou  shalt  be  ! 

The  clouds  and  sunbeams  o'er  his  eye, 
That  once  their  shade  and  glory  threw, 

Have  left,  in  yonder  silent  sky, 
No  vestige  where  they  flew  ! 

The  annals  of  the  human  race, 
Their  ruin  since  the  world  began, 

Of  him  afford  no  other  trace 
Than  this — THERE  LIVED  A  MAN. 


HOPE. 

AUSPICIOUS  Hope  !  in  thy  sweet  garden  grow 

Wreaths  for  each  toil,  a  charm  for  every  woe  : 

Won  by  their  sweets,  in  Nature's  languid  hour, 

The  way-worn  pilgrim  seeks  thy  summer  bower ; 

There,  as  the  wild-bee  murmurs  on  the  wing, 

What  peaceful  dreams  thy  handmaid  spirits  bring ! 

What  viewless  forms  the  JEolian  organ  play, 

And  sweep  the  furrowed  lines  of  anxious  thought  away ! 


HOPE.  71 

Angel  of  life  !  thy  glittering  wings  explore 
Earth's  loneliest  bounds,  and  ocean's  wildest  shore. 
Lo  !  to  the  wintry  winds  the  pilot  yields 
His  bark,  careering  o'er  unfathomed  fields  ; 
Now  on  Atlantic  waves  he  rides  afar, 
Where  Andes,  giant  of  the  western  star, 
With  meteor  standard  to  the  winds  unfurled, 
Looks  from  his  throne  of  clouds  o'er  half  the  world. 

Now  far  he  sweeps,  where  scarce  a  summer  smiles 
On  Behring's  rocks,  or  Greenland's  naked  isles ; 
Cold  on  his  midnight  watch  the  breezes  blow, 
From  wastes  that  slumber  in  eternal  snow ; 
And  waft  across  the  waves'  tumultuous  roar 
The  wolf's  long  howl  from  Oonalaska's  shore. 

Poor  child  of  danger,  nursling  of  the  storm, 
Sad  are  the  woes  that  wreck  thy  manly  form  ! 
Rocks,  waves,  and  winds,  the  shattered  bark  delay  : 
Thy  heart  is  sad,  thy  home  is  far  away. 

But  Hope  can  here  her  moonlight  vigils  keep, 
And  sing  to  charm  the  spirit  of  the  deep  : 
Swift  as  yon  streamer  lights  the  starry  pole, 
Her  visions  warm  the  watchman's  pensive  soul : 
His  native  hills  that  rise  in  happier  climes, 
The  grot  that  heard  his  song  of  other  times, 
His  cottage  home,  his  bark  of  slender  sail, 
His  glassy  lake,  and  broomwood  blossomed  vale, 
Rush  on  his  thought ;  he  sweeps  before  the  wind, 
Treads  the  loved  shore  he  sighed  to  leave  behind ; 
Meets  at  each  step  a  friend's  familiar  face, 
And  flies  at  last  to  Helen's  long  embrace  ; 
Wipes  from  her  cheek  the  rapture-speaking  tear, 
And  clasps  with  many  a  sigh  his  children  dear ! 


72  THE     BITTEE     WEDDING. 


FORGIVE   AND  FORGET. 

FORGIVE  and  forget !  why  the  world  would  be  lonely, 

The  garden  a  wilderness  left  to  deform, 
If  the  flowers  but  remembered  the  chilling  winds  only, 

And  the  fields  gave  no  verdure  for  fear  of  the  storm  ! 
Oh,  still  in  thy  loveliness  emblem  the  flower, 

Give  the  fragrance  of  feeling  to  sweeten  life's  way ; 
And  prolong  not  again  the  brief  cloud  of  an  hour, 

With  tears  that  but  darken  the  rest  of  the  day  ! 

Forgive  and  forget !  there  's  no  breast  so  unfeeling 

But  some  gentle  thoughts  of  affection  there  live  ; 
And  the  best  of  us  all  require  something  concealing, 

Some  heart  that  with  smiles  can  forget  and  forgive ! 
Then  away  with  the  cloud  from  those  beautiful  eyes, 

That  brow  was  no  home  for  such  frowns  to  have  met ; 
Oh,  how  could  our  spirits  e'er  hope  for  the  skies, 

If  Heaven  refused  to  Forgive  and  Forget ! 


THE  BITTER  WEDDING,  A  SWISS  LEGEND. 
i 

ONE  fine  summer  morning,  many  hundred  years  ago, 
ybung  Berthold  set  out  with  a  very  heavy  heart  from  his 
Alpine  hut,  with  a  view  of  reaching,  in  the  evening,  the 
beautiful  valley  of  Siebenthal,  where  stood  his  native  vil- 
lage, and  where  he  designed  to  be  an  unknown  and  silent 
guest  at  the  dancing  and  festivity  of  certain  merry-makers. 


THE    BITTER    WEDDING.  73 

"  Ah ! "  sighed  he,  "  it  will  be  a  bitter  wedding.  Had 
I  died  last  spring,  it  were  better  with  me  now." 

"Fiddle  faddle!"  exclaimed  a  snarling  voice  from  the 
road-side.  "Fiddle  faddle!  Where  Master  Almerich 
touches  his  fiddle,  there  it  goes  merrily :  there  is  the 
hurly  burly,  dirling  the  bottoms  out  of  the  tubs  and  pitch- 
ers! Good  morning,  my  child!  Come,  cheer  up,  my 
hearty,  and  let  us  trudge  on  together  in  good  fellowship." 

The  young  herdsman  had  stopped  when  he  first  heard 
the  croaking  voice ;  and  now  he  could  not  speak  for  laugh- 
ing. An  odd-looking,  dwarfish  figure,  mounted  upon  one 
leg  and  a  half,  and  propped  upon  a  crutch,  with  a  nose  as 
long  as  one's  thumb,  made  half  a  dozen  wry  faces  as  he 
hobbled  up,  quite  out  of  breath,  from  a  foot-path  on  the 
left  side  of  the  road.  Behind  the  dwarf  trailed  an  enor- 
mous fiddle,  on  which  lay  a  large  wallet — appurtenances 
which  seemed  to  be  attached  to  the  little  odd  figure  by 
way  of  ballast,  lest  the  rush  of  the  wind  down  the  valley 
should  sweep  it  away. 

"Good  morning!"  Berthold  at  last  roared  out;  "you 
are  a  merry  fellow,  master  fiddler,  and  shall  be  a  comfort 
to  me  to-day.  In  spite  of  my  misfortunes,  I  could  not  help 
laughing  at  the  sight  of  you  and  your  hugeous  fiddle. 
Take  it  not  amiss;  a  laugh  has  been  a  rare  thing  with  me 
for  many  a  day." 

"Has  it,  indeed?"  rejoined  the.  dwarf:  "and  yet  so 
young!  Perhaps  you  are  heart-sick,  my  son?" 

"  Yes"'  if  you  will  call  it  so,"  replied  the  herdsman. 
"  Here,  in  our  mountains  and  valleys,  a  great  many  fellows 
run  about  fancying  themselves  in  love,  while  they  are  all 
the  time  eating,  drinking,  and  sleeping,  as  sound  as  any 
marmot,  and  in  one  year's  time  will  easily  pass  from  Mar- 
garet to  Rosamond.  That  is  all  a  mockery.  I  would 
much  rather  die  than  forget  Siegelind ;  though  with  me 
all  rest  and  joy  are  forever  gone." 

"Ay,  ay,"  replied  Master  Almerich,  "I  thought  you 


74  THE    BITTER    WEDDING. 

were  going  to  the  dance,  my  hearty.  I  heard  you  crying 
out  of  a  bitter  wedding,  and  I  thought  to  myself,  '  Aha, 
he  does  not  get  the  right  one.'  " 

"Ah,  that's  true  enough,"  replied  Berthold;  "  he  does 
not  get  the  right  one — that  Hildebrand.  I  will  tell  you 
the  whole  matter,  Master  Almerich,  as  you  seem  to  be 
going  the  same  way,  if  I  understood  you  aright." 

"Ah,  yes!"  sighed  the  dwarf;  "surely,  surely,  if  I 
had  only  got  a  pair  of  stout  legs.  Look  you  here,  my 
dear  child ;  what  a  miserable  stump  is  this  for  crawling 
down  the  mountain !  I  am  asthmatic  too,  and  my  throat 
has  been  enlarging  these  last  fifty  years ;  and  that  wal- 
let has  galled  my  back  sore  all  yesterday  in  climbing  over 
the  rough  hills.  Heaven  knows  when  I  shall  get  to  the 
wedding.  There  was  such  a  talking  of  that  feast  on  the 
other  side  of  the  mountain,  that,  thought  I  to  myself,  I 
will  go  thither  also,  and  make  some  money;  so  I  took 
my  fiddle,  and  began  to  crawl  up  the  ascent;  yester- 
day I  became  quite  exhausted,  and  now  I  must  lay  me 
down  here  by  the  side  of  the  road,  and  submit  to  fate. 
Tell  me  all  about  the  wedding  when  you  return,  my  hearty, 
— if  the  wolves  have  not  swallowed  or  hunger  killed  me 
before  that  time." 

With  these  words,  the  dwarf,  apparently  exhausted, 
sunk  down,  with  a  deep  and  melancholy  sigh,  on  the  near- 
est stpne,  threw  his  bundle  on  the  grass,  and  stretched 
out  his  bony  hand,  as  if  to  take  a  last  farewell  of  young 
Berthold,  who  in  silence  leaned  upon  his  staff,  gazing  on 
the  fiddler,  and  quite  unable  to  comprehend  what  ailed 
him.  % 

"  Master,"  began  the  herdsman,  "  how  you  sink !  You 
have  left  all  your  gay  spirits  at  home.  Although  it  is  a 
weary  journey  for  me  as  well  as  you,  I  will  yet  endeavor 
to  carry  your  wallet  and  fiddle,  so  I  may  enjoy  your  com- 
pany on  the  road.  You  must  really  hear  what  presses 
upon  my  soul, — perhaps  I  may  obtain  some  relief  in  speak- 


THE    BITTER    WEDDING.  75 

ing  it  out,  and  you  will  have  some  pithy  word  of  comfort 
for  me." 

The  dwarf  thanked  him  heartily  for  his  kind  offer,  and 
quickly  transferred  his  wallet  and  fiddle  to  the  stout  shoul- 
ders of  the  herdsman ;  then  took  his  crutch,  whistled  a 
merry  tune,  and  trudged  gayly  on  by  the  side  of  Ber- 
thold. 

"It  is  a  long  story,  this  wedding,"  began  the  herds- 
man; "  but  I  will  be  as  brief  as  possible,  for  it  still  grieves 
me  to  the  heart  when  I  think  about  it;  and  whoever  can 
understand  it  at  all,  understands  it  soon :  my  sufferings 
will  never  be  at  an  end,  though  I  should  talk  the  whole 
day  about  it. 

"In  the  village  there,  below  us,  old  Bernhard  has  a 
pretty,  sweet  girl  of  a  daughter,  Siegelind :  he  has  lived 
for  many  years  in  a  nice  little  cottage,  and  his  wife  Ger- 
trude with  him,  close  by  the  stream,  where  the  road  strikes 
off  into  the  wood.  Their  employment  is  to  make  wooden 
spoons  for  the  herdsmen,  by  which,  and  the  help  of  a  goat 
and  a  couple  of  sheep,  they  gain  a  scanty  livelihood. 

"  Last  winter,  having  gone  thither  and  got  s«me  ashen 
spoons  and  cups  nicely  cut,  I  thought  with  myself,  '  That 
will  do  exactly :  my  father  is  already  old,  and  sends  me, 
with  the  cattle,  to  the  mountain  in  spring ;  and  if  I  only 
behave  'there  as  becomes  a  herdsman,  I  descend  in  autumn, 
and  marry  Siegelind,  and  find  myself  a  right  free,  happy 
man.' 

"Ah,  Master  Almerich,  my  words  do  poor  justice  to  my 
heart :  my  feelings  always  get  the  start  of  them,  and  reason 
comes  limping  after. 

"I  beheld  Siegelind,  you  see,  moving  actively  about, — 
wearing  a  cheerful  countenance  late  and  early, — all  good- 
ness and  discretion  from  top  to  toe,  and  pretty  too, — over 
flowing  with  gay  spirits,  and  merry  songs  without  number ; 
all  that  my  eye,  my  ear,  and  my  heart,  drank  in  smoothly : 
she  was  satisfied,  and  the  old  .people  too :  so  in  summer 


76  THE    BITTER    WEDDING. 

I  was  to  go  to  the  mountain,  and  at  harvest-home  to  the 
wedding;  and  she  gave  me  this  waistcoat  to  wear  on  the 
hills  in  remembrance  of  her. 

"  Meanwhile  the  spring  came,  and  old  Bernhard  trav- 
ersed the  forest,  selecting  the  finest  stems  for  his  carving 
work,  and  exerting  all  his  skill  to  provide  us  with  fine  fur- 
niture against  the  wedding. 

"  So,  one  morning,  he  was  ascending  the  mountain  mer- 
rily, through  those  ravines  where  there  are  some  marvel- 
lously fine  trees,  when  a  little  man,  in  an  odd  sort  of  dress, 
hastened  to  meet  him,  screaming  violently,  and  beckoning 
and  calling  him  so  earnestly  that  he  could  not  but  go  with 
him.  They  soon  reached  a  barn,  where  he  found  the  wife 
of  the  little  dwarfish  stranger  lying  sick  and  in  extremity. 
Her  he  relieved  and  cured ;  but  for  me — bride,  peace,  and 
happiness  were  lost  from  that  hour." 

"Ah,  good  heavens!"  exclaimed  Almerich:  "you  are 
talking  bravely,  whilst  I  am  almost  starving; — hop,  hop, 
hop ; — we  are  trudging  incessantly  on,  and  my  stomach  is 
as  empty  as  a  bagpipe ;  yesterday  evening — nothing ;  this 
morning — nothing ;  O  that  brave  wedding-dance ;  the  fid- 
dle runs  off,  and  Master  Almerich  is  starving  here !  " 

"  Now,  now,  the  deuce !  "  bawled  the  herdsman ;  "  what 
have  you  got  here  in  this  cursed  wallet?  Here  am  I  toil- 
ing on  with  this  plagued  bag,  rubbing  the  very  skin  off 
my  shoulder.  I  thought  there  were  at  least  ham,  and 
cheese,  and  fresh  bread,  in  it :  if  not,  why  should  I  be 
smothered  under  such  a  bundle  of  rags?" 

"Softly,  softly,  my  son,"  replied  the  fiddler;  "there  are 
treasures  in  it;  an  old  barret-cap  of  Siegefried,  and  an 
old  sword-belt  of  Dieterich,  and  a  couple  of  old  leathern 
soles  of  Ylsan,  child !  These  are  no  every-day  concerns, 
my  hearty !  They  are  all  sacred  relics  to  him  who  under- 
stands the  thing.  They  are  worth  a  whole  mountain  of 
sweet  wine,  and  seven  acres  of  thick  golden  wheat,  to  him 
who  knows  their  value." 


THE    BITTER    WEDDING.  77 

"It  may  be  so,"  said  the  herdsman;  "I  only  wish  we 
had  a  few  cups  of  milk  in  the  place  of  your  treasures ; 
but  if  it  is  so  with  your  stomach,  my  good  master,  look 
you  here  :  I  have  a  mouthful  of  meagre  goat-milk  cheese, 
which  I  meant  to  serve  me  for  the  night;  but  never  mind, 
I  am  little  disposed. to  eat." 

Berthold  now  produced  his  provisions,  and  Almerich 
devoured  them  as  greedily  as  if  he  meant  to  swallow  the 
herdsman  after  them  by  way  of  dessert.  The  bread  was 
quickly  devoured,  and  honest  Berthold  saw  his  supper  de- 
voured beforehand ;  then  the  fiddler  wiped  his  mouth, 
leaped  briskly  up,  was  again  in  good  spirits,  and  stumped 
away  before  the  herdsman  as  freshly  as  if  nothing  had  ail- 
ed him.  All  this,  however,  seemed  very  odd  to  Berthold ; 
and  when  he  again  felt  the  annoyance  of  the  wallet,  he 
drew  a  sigh  so  deep,  that  it  echoed  back  from  the  neigh- 
boring rocks. 

"  Lack-a-day ! "  said  Almerich  again,  "  the  poor  lad 
has  lost  his  bride  and  his  peace  of  heart.  I  have  been  so 
concerned  about  him  that  I  could  not  eat  a  bit." 

"  That  fellow  could  devour  the  Stockhorn,"  thought 
Berthold,  somewhat  angrily;  "the  club-foot  is  not  in  his 
right  senses,  I  believe. 

"  It  was  really  too  bad,"  began  he,  at  last,  aloud  ;  "  the 
dwarf  in  the  barn  returned  a  profusion  of  thanks  to  old 
Bernhard,  and  said,  '  I  am  a  foreign  miner,  and  have  lost 
the  road,  with  my  good  wife;  so  I  have  nothing  to  reward 
you  with  for  your  kind  services,  save  a  little  bit  of  cheese 
and  a  few  draughts  of  wine.  So  take  that,  and  remember 
the  poor  fellow  who  gave  you  what  he  could,  and  will  pray 
that  Heaven  may  reward  you  further.' 

"  To  old  Bernhard,  the  crumb  of  cheese  and  the  few 
spoonfuls  of  wine  seemed  poor  enough ;  and  he  accepted 
7*= 


78  THE    BITTER    WEDDING. 

the  little  bottle  and  piece  of  cheese  only  to  get  rid  of  the 
importunity  of  the  dwarf,  who  would  take  no  refusal. 

"  Towards  noon,  Bernhard  was  proceeding  to  his  vil- 
lage :  the  road  was  long,  and,  feeling  fatigued,  he  lay  down 
in  the  shade  of  a  tree,  took  out  the  gift  of  the  dwarf,  and 
began  to  eat  and  to  drink.  Meanwhile  my  evil  stars 
bring  young  Hildebrand,  the  most  miserly  fellow  in  the 
village,  in  his  way : — '  God  bless  you,  Father  Bernhard ! ' — 
*  Thank  you,  my  son.'  Thus  the  conversation  proceeded. 
The  niggard  sees  the  old  man  comfortably  enjoying  his 
repast;  so  he  sets  himself  down  beside  him,  and  takes  a 
share.  There  they  eat  and  eat  for  about  an  hour :  the 
wine  never  gets  less,  and  the  cheese  is  never  done ;  and 
both  behold  the  miracle  till  their  hair  stands  on  end. 

"  All  was  now  over,  master  fiddler,  and  poor  Berthold 
was  undone. 

"  Hildebrand  chose  words  as  polished  as  marble :  they 
went  down  with  Bernhard  as  smoothly  as  honey :  my  dear, 
sweet  Siegelind  was  pledged  to  the  rich  miser,  with  the 
marvellous  qheese  for  her  dowry.  The  old  man  was  quite 
beside  himself;  the  young  man  talked  finely ;  they  were 
to  outdo  the  whole  village,  and  keep  their  secret  to  them- 
selves ;  I  was  called  a  miserable  wretch,  and  the  spirit  of 
mischief  just  brought  me  into  their  way  in  time  to  hear 
the  whole  sad  story." 

"  Ah,  good  heavens  !"  again  exclaimed  Almerich:  "I 
am  undone  with  cold ;  it  is  turning  a  cold,  rainy  day,  and 
my  bones  are  too  naked !  Hew,  hew !  how  the  storm 
blows  into  my  very  soul.  This  day  will  be  my  death ;  I 
thought  so  before.  Go,  my  son ;  I  give  you  the  fiddle  as  a 
present :  leave  me  the  wallet  here ;  I  will  stretch  myself 
out  to  die  upon  it." 

"  The  mischief's  in  it !  "  grumbled  Berthold ;  "  if  mat- 
ters are  to  go  on  this  way,  we  shall  be  a  year  and  a  day 
hence  still  travelling  this  cursed  road.  Hark  ye,  old  boy ; 
you  are  an  odd  fellow ;  with  crutches,  without  meat  and 


THE    BITTER    WEDDING.  79 

drink,  and  without  a  worsted  coat,  wandering  through  our 
rough  country,  with  a  fiddle  as  large  as  a  ton,  and  a  wal- 
let as  heavy  as  seven  three-stone  cheeses  !  That  may  in- 
deed be  called  a  tempting  of  Providence!  Why  the  deuce 
do  you  drag  after  you  that  ass's  burden  of  old  rubbish,  and 
have  not  the  convenience  of  a  cloak  in  your  bundle  1 " 

"  It  is  all  very  true,"  said  Almerich ;  "  I  am  not  yet  ac- 
customed to  be  the  lame,  feeble  man  you  see  me.  Thirty 
years  ago,  I  skipped  like  a  leveret  over  hills  and  dales; 
but  now,  farewell  to  friend  Almerich;  I  shall  never  leave 
this  place ;  however,  it  is  all  one, — perish  here  or  die 
there,  a  dying  bed  is  ever  a  hard  one,  even  though  it 
should  be  of  down  and  silk." 

"  Now  really,"  replied  Berthold,  "  you  are  too  whimsi- 
cal, fiddler !  The  cold  blast  never  hurts  a  tough  fellow 
who  is  accustomed  to  run  about  the  mountains.  There, 
slip  into  my  coat,  and  walk  smartly  on,  for  a  shower  is  ap- 
proaching, and  that  rascally  wallet  is  weighing  me  down." 

"Patience,  child,  patience!"  said  Almerich,  "that  coat 
is  quite  warm  from  your  shoulders, — 1  feel  very  comforta- 
ble in  it, — slowly,  gently ;  your  story  of  the  marvellous 
cheese  and  wine  has  quite  restored  me  to  warmth — how 
did  the  matter  go  on  1 " 

"  You  rogue  and  rascal,"  thought  Berthold  to  himself, 
and  then  continued  his  lamentable  tale. 

"  How  did  it  go  on ! — Gertrude  sang  to  the  same  tune 
as  her  husband;  Siegelind  grew  sad,  and  lost  her  color  and 
strength;  the  old  boy  urged  the  matter,  and  Hildebrand 
too.  Bernhard  was  anxious  to  get  the  rich  and  proud  son- 
in-law,  and  was  in  great  fear  lest  the  enchanted  wine 
should  soon  dry  up.  The  young  fellow  had  money  in  his 
eye,  and  wished  to  turn  the  bewitched  cheese  to  usury. 
Thus  the  wedding  was  determined  on,  and  I  was  left  in  sad- 
ness upon  my  mountain.  I  tried  to  forget  it ;  I  thought 
Siegelind  could  not  have  borne  me  in  her  heart,  otherwise 
she  would  not,  to  escape  death  and  martyrdom,  have  mar- 


SO  THE    BITTER    WEDDING. 

ried  the  red-haired  Hildebrand.  Last  night  I  could  find 
neither  rest  nor  sleep  upon  my  straw.  I  must  go  and  see 
her  with  my  own  eyes  take  that  miser  for  her  husband. 
Near  the  village  I  will  wrap  up  my  head,  and  dye  my 
hands  and  cheeks  with  berries,  so  that  nobody  will  know 
me ;  and  in  the  bustle  of  the  wedding,  when  every  thing 
is  turning  topsy-turvy,  not  a  living  soul  will  care  for  poor 
Berthold.  When  all  is  over,  I  will,  so  it  please  Heaven, 
become  wise  again ;  or,  if  not,  my  head  will  turn  alto- 
gether, and  that  will  be  a  blessing  too." 

"My  good  child,"  said  the  dwarf,  "all  that  will  pass 
over.  Now,  I  perceive  well  that  it  is  a  hard  journey  and 
a  bitter  wedding  too  for  you :  it  is,  however,  good  luck, 
my  child,  that  you  have  me  for  a  companion.  I  will  fiddle 
till  your  heart  leaps  again :  your  sorrow  grieves  me  as 
much  as  if  it  were  my  own." 

Whilst  talking  thus,  a  few  drops  of  rain  fell,  which  proved 
the  prelude  to  a  heavy  shower;  and,  although  the  travellers 
had  already  gone  a  considerable  way,  they  were  still  far 
from  the  end  of  their  journey,  and,  gush  after  gush,  the 
rain  poured  upon  their  heads,  till  the  water  ran  down  from 
their  hats  as  from  a  spout. 

Berthold  trudged  silently  on,  sighing  frequently  and 
heavily  under  his  burden :  he  could  have  sworn  that  it  in- 
creased a  pound's  weight  every  step ;  nevertheless  it  was 
impossible  for  his  good  nature  to  think  of  giving  it  back 
to  the  poor  cripple  in  such  a  tempest.  The  moisture  be- 
gan to  trickle  through  his  waistcoat,  and  run  in  a  cold 
stream  down  his  back ;  he  wished  himself,  the  dwarf,  and 
the  wedding,  all  far  enough,  but  stalked  sullenly  on 
through  the  mud.  as  if  he  had  been  wading  through  the 
highest  alpine  grass. 

The  fiddler  limped  close  behind  him,  croaking,  occa- 
sionally, through  his  raven  throat,  an  old  spring  song,  which 
told  of  sunshine,  and  singing  birds,  and  pleasure,  and 
love.  He  then  drew  himself  snugly  together,  and  expa- 


THE    BITTER    WEDDING.  81 

tiated  on  the  excellence  of  the  herdsman's  coat,  which,  he 
said,  was  quite  water-proof;  next  he  called  to  Berthold  to 
step  leisurely,  to  pay  particular  attention  to  the  wallet  and 
fiddle,  and  not  to  overheat  himself. 

The  herdsman  would  have  lost  all  patience  and  courage 
a  thousand  times  over,  in  dragging  his  hundred  weight  of 
a  load,  and  playing  the  fool  to  the  crazy  fiddler,  if  he  had 
not  been  ashamed  to  throw  away  the  burden  which  he  had 
volunteered  to  carry,  and  to  forsake  the  person  whose 
company  he  had  himself  invited.  But  in  his  heart  he 
vowed  deeply  and  solemnly  never  again  to  lend  his  coat  to 
a  fiddler,  nor  give  away  his  cheese,  nor  carry  a  fiddle  and 
wallet, — and  after  all  be  mocked  and  laughed  at  by  such 
an  odd  quiz  of  a  fellow  !  "  If,"  thought  he  at  last,  "  the 
upshot  of  all  this  is  a  fever  in  the  evening,  which  carries 
me  quickly  off,  be  it  so, — it  remains  a  bitter  wedding." 

After  a  few  hours  of  rain,  the  two  companions  reached 
the  valley,  where  a  swollen  and  rapid  torrent  rushed  across 
their  path,  which  had  swept  away  every  vestige  of  the  lit- 
tle bridge  that  led  to  the  village,  with  the  exception  of  a 
single  small  plank  ;  the  herdsman  heeded  not  the  narrow 
footing,  and  was  stepping  boldly  across,  when  the  fiddler 
began  to  roar  out  lustily  about  the  dangers  of  the  path — 
"  For  my  life  and  soul,  I  will  not  move  from  this  spot. 
Neither  cat  nor  rat  could  pass  over  there.  T  should  be  a 
dead  man  if  I  ventured  on  that  cursed  plank.  Let  them 
fiddle  yonder  who  can  swim.  I  wish  I  was  in  a  down 
bed,  with  my  fiddle  for  a  pillow." 

"  Don't  make  such  a  noise  about  it,"  cried  Berthold  ; 
"  if  our  journey  has  led  us  as  far  as  this,  we  shall  surely 
get  on  a  little  farther ;  if  I  have  brought  the  fiddler  this 
length  to  the  bitter  dance,  I  will  also  bring  him  to  the 
wedding-house.  Though  I  am  a  fool,  I  am,  nevertheless, 
a  good-natured  one." 

With  these  words,  the  herdsman  took  off  the  fiddle  and 
wallet  from  his  back,  and  supplied  their  place  with  the 


82  THE    BITTER    WEDDING. 

dwarf,  whom  he  carried  over  as  easily  as  a  bundle  of 
straw.  Then  he  fetched  the  fiddle,  wallet,  and  crutch, 
which  lay  as  heavy  as  so  many  stones  upon  his  shoul- 
ders. 

"Well,  the  best  of  it  now  is,"  said  he,  "  that  we  shall 
soon  reach  the  village :  either  my  head  is  turned,  or  that 
wallet  is  filled  with  flesh  and  blood,  and  Master  Almerich's 
body  is  stuffed  with  chaff." 

"Nonsense!"  replied  the  fiddler  with  a  broad  grin. 
"  You  have  behaved  well,  child  :  it  would  be  a  great  pity 
if  the  bride  yonder  should  not  get  you :  you  have  the 
genuine  patience  of  the  lamb  in  you ;  yet  I  perceive  you 
have  also  strength  enough,  with  your  heart  in  the  right 
place,  and  as  much  wisdom  as  there  is  any  need  of  in  the 
country.  Come,  let  us  paint  your  cheeks,  and  take  out 
the  old  cap  you  will  find  in  my  wallet,  and  the  green 
waistcoat,  and  get  that  belt  about  you ;  then  take  up  the 
rest  of  the  things  and  follow  me :  to-day  you  shall  be  the 
fiddler's  boy,  and  not  a  living  creature  know  you." 

The  fiddler  opened  his  wallet,  and  threw  out  the  dis- 
guise to  Berthold ;  shut  it  hastily  again ;  painted  his  face 
with  cranberries,  and  his  beard  and  eyebrows  with  a  bit 
of  coal;  and  then  they  walked  gayly  on,  the  last  quarter  of 
an  hour,  towards  the  village. 

Evening  was  just  coming  on,  and  the  sun  broke  out  all 
at  once  from  under  the  clouds ;  the  birds  began  to  sing 
cheerfully ;  the  flowers  opened  their  leaves  as  if  to  listen, 
and  Berthold  felt  his  clothes  sooner  dry  than  if  he  had 
been  sitting  close  to  a  large  fire. 

In  a  few  minutes,  our  wanderers  mingled  with  the  merry 
wedding  guests;  noise  and  merriment  were  echoing  all 
around  ;  and  no  one  looked  sad  but  Siegelind,  who  kept 
her  tearful  eyes  fixe,d  upon  the  ground.  The  old  fiddler 
was  welcomed  with  shouts  of  applause;  the  rain  had  pre- 
vented the  arrival  of  the  band  of  fiddlers  and  pipers  who 
had  been  invited  on  the  occasion,  and  every  body  pro- 


THE    BITTER    WEDDING.  83 

nounced  it  a  piece  of  marvellous  good  luck  for  the  wed- 
ding, that  Master  Almerich  should  have  got  through. 

"  Now,  children,"  exclaimed  the  old  boy,  "  fetch  us 
something  to  drink,  and  some  cheese  and  bread ;  and  do 
not  forget  that  youth  who  has  dragged  myself  as  well  as 
my  fiddle  here  to-day." 

The  guests  ran  about  to  execute  the  old  fiddler's  com- 
mands ;  and  even  Gertrude  and  Bernhard  seemed  well- 
pleased,  and  brought  whatever  was  on  the  table.  Poor 
Berthold's  heart  was  bleeding :  he  kept,  however,  eating 
and  drinking,  that  he  might  not  be  obliged  to  speak. 
Meanwhile  the  old  fiddler  put  dry  strings  on  his  instru- 
ment, and  began  to  tune  it  so  stoutly  that  it  thrilled 
through  marrow  and  bone,  and  quickly  drew  the  attention 
of  all  upon  the  musician. 

"Bless  me!"  whispered  Bernhard  to  Gertrude;  "upon 
my  faith,  it  is  the  very  dwarf  who  gave  me  the  bewitched 
wine  and  cheese !  Be  gentle  to  him,  wife,  and  say  not  a 
single  word." 

All  at  once  the  fiddler  struck  up  so  stoutly  and  briskly 
upon  his  fiddle,  that  the  very  house  shook  :  blow  upon  blow, 
he  commenced  such  a  furious  strain,  that  the  whole  com- 
pany leaped  up  from  their  benches,  and  began  dancing  as 
if  they  were  mad.  "  Heigh  !  heigh!  "  shouted,  the  people, 
"tfierc  is  a  fiddle;"  and  everyone  capered  and  whirled 
through  the  wedding-chamber  as  if  they  danced  for  a 
wager.  The  young  people  led  out  the  dance,  and  the  old 
ones  hobbled  as  fast  after  them  as  they  could  :  nobody  re- 
mained in  her  place  but  Siegelind,  who  wished  herself 
ten  thousand  miles  away  from  the  merriment,  and  Ber- 
thold,  who  looked  steadfastly  and  sorrowfully  upon  his 
beloved. 

In  the  midst  of  his  fiddling,  Master  Almerich  beckoned 
to  the  beautiful  bride  to  step  near  to  him — "  There  stands 
a  little  bottle  yonder,  where  your  bridegroom  has  been 
seated,  and  some  old  cheese  with  it.  I  dare  say  it  will 


84  THE    BITTER    WEDDING. 

not  be  the  worst  in  the  house.  I  would  taste  a  little  of  it. 
This  playing  makes  me  a  little  nice  in  the  palate." 

The  good-natured  bride  was  little  interested  in  the  pres- 
ervation of  the  precious  articles.  She  brought  them,  and 
placed  them  upon  a  chair  beside  him,  thinking  the  old 
man  might  take  as  much  as  he  could  eat. 

The  dwarf  quickly  laid  his  fiddle  aside,  raised  the  be- 
witched bottle  in  his  right  hand,  and  the  cheese  in  his 
left,  and  exclaimed,  with  a  loud  voice,  "Well,  my  good 
people,  well,  here's  the  health  of  that  beautiful  bride  there 
and  her  sweetheart :  may  she  live  long  and  joyfully." 

"Long  and  joyfully,"  resounded  through  the  room, 
while  fifty  bonnets  and  hats  were  tossed  up  into  the  air. 

But  horror-struck  and  deadly  pale  did  Hildebrand,  and 
Bernhard,  and  Gertrude,  become,  when  they  saw  the  won- 
drous wine  and  enchanted  cheese  in  Almerich's  uplifted 
fist.  "Dares  he — can  he — will  he?"  darted  through  their 
hearts ;  but,  wo  and  alas !  in  one  turn  of  his  hand,  the 
glutton,  with  his  large  ox  mouth,  had  swallowed  the  be- 
witched draught  and  marvellous  cheese  without  leaving  a 
morsel. 

A  roar  of  passion  from  the  red-haired  Hildebrand,  and 
a  gush  of  tears  from  Gertrude,  now  terrified  the  people; 
while  old  Bernhard  stood  like  one  petrified.  A  cheerful 
smile  flew  over  the  countenance  of  Siegelind,  and  Ber- 
thold  rose  boldly  from  his  bench,  and  stood  ready  to  use 
his  fists  upon  Hildebrand  if  he  should  dare  to  touch  the 
fiddler. 

"  You  rogue !  you  beggar ! "  at  last  exclaimed  Hilde- 
brand, "  who  told  you  to  give  that  old  fool  of  a  fiddler  that 
gift  of  Heaven  ?  You  may  now  give  your  house,  and  your 
bride,  too,  to  the  rabble.  I  do  not  care  a  straw  more  for 
you  and  all  that  remains  to  you." 

With  words  of  venom  and  execration,  Hildebrand  rush- 
ed out  of  the  room,  while,  silent  and  terrified,  the  outraged 
Bernhard  and  his  crowd  of  guests  looked  after  him.  "  I 


«A   BHAOTIFUL   CHILD   LAY   OX   THE    &ROUXD,    AT   SOME    LITTLE    DISTANCE.' 


THE    RUSTIC    WREATH.  85 

am  a  dead  man!"  at  last  exclaimed  Bernhard;  "my  child 
and  we  are  all  ruined ;  the  wedding  feast  and  the  adorn- 
ments are  all  unpaid  !  O  cursed,  horrid  miser  !  Bring  me 
a  knife — a  knife  !  " 

"A  fig  for  a  knife !"  exclaimed  the  fiddler.  "There 
the  bridegroom  has  just  come,  and  has  brought  with  him  a 
whole  wallet  full  of  gold ;  and  the  bride  loves  him  with  all 
her  heart ;  and  the  guests  are  still  together ;  and  my  fid- 
dle is  in  glorious  tune." 

With  these  words,  Almerich  crippled  forward  to  the 
half- bewildered  and  yet  joyful  Berthold,  and  drew  him  into 
the  circle.  He  wiped  his  face  with  the  skirt  of  his  coat, 
and  showed  to  the  delighted  bride  and  the  astonished 
guests  their  well-known  neighbor,  who  was  dear  and  wel- 
come to  all.  The  wallet  was  hastily  dragged  forward ;  and, 
Almerich  having  quickly  opened  the  lock,  behold!  pure 
red  gold,  in  coins  and  chains,  tumbled  out  from  it,  dazzling 
the  eyes  of  all  with  their  splendor.  Old  Bernhard  and 
Gertrude  embraced  by  turns  the  lovely  Siegelind  and  the 
ugly  dwarf.  Almerich  took  his  fiddle,  and  struck  up  a 
tune,  which  bewitched  them  all ;  and  they  danced  till  mid- 
night in  joy  and  glory.  The  musician  then  escaped,  and 
left  a  whole  house  full  of  merry-makers  around  the  two 
happy  lovers,  who,  till  their  last  day,  a  thousand  times, 
blessed  the  bitter  wedding,  in  which  they  had  been  so  won- 
derfully united  by  the  benevolent  lame  dwarf. 


THE   RUSTIC   WREATH. 

I  HAD  taken  refuge  in  a  harvest  field  belonging  to  my 

good  neighbor,  Farmer  Creswell.      A  beautiful  child  lay 

on  the  ground,  at  some  little  distance,  whilst  a  young  girl, 

resting  from  the  labor  of  reaping,  was  twisting  a  rustic 

8 


86  THE    RUSTIC    WREATH. 

wreath — enamelled  corn-flowers,  brilliant  poppies,  snow- 
white  lily-bines,  and  light,  fragile  hare-bells,  mingled  with 
tufts  of  the  richest  wheat-ears — around  its  hat. 

There  was  something  in  the  tender  youthfulness  of  these 
two  innocent  creatures,  in  the  pretty,  though  somewhat 
fantastic,  occupation  of  the  girl,  the  fresh  wild  flowers, 
the  ripe  and  swelling  corn,  that  harmonized  with  the  sea- 
son and  the  hour,  and  conjured  up  memories  of  "  Dis  and 
Proserpine,"  and  of  all  that  is  gorgeous  and  graceful  in  old 
mythology ;  of  the  lovely  Lavinia  of  our  own  poet,  and  of 
the  subject  of  that  finest  pastoral  in  the  world,  the  far  love- 
lier Ruth.  But  these  fanciful  associations  soon  vanished 
before  the  real  sympathy  excited  by  the  actors  of  the  scene, 
both  of  whom  were  known  to  me,  and  both  objects  of  a 
sincere  and  lively  interest. 

The  young  girl,  Dora  Creswell,  was  the  orphan  niece 
of  one  of  the  wealthiest  yeomen  in  our  part  of  the  world, — 
the  only  child  of  his  only  brother, — and,  having  lost  both 
her  parents  whilst  still  an  infant,  had  been  reared  by  her 
widowed  uncle,  as  fondly  and  carefully  as  his  own  son, 
Walter.  He  said,  that  he  loved  her  quite  as  well,  perhaps 
he  loved  her  better ;  for,  although  it  were  impossible  for  a 
father  not  to  be  proud  of  the  bold,  handsome  youth,  who 
at  eighteen  had  a  man's  strength,  and  a  man's  stature,  was 
the  best  ringer,  the  best  cricketer,  and  the  best  shot  in  the 
county,  yet  the  fair  Dora,  who,  nearly  ten  years  younger, 
was  at  once  his  handmaid,  his  housekeeper,  his  plaything, 
and  his  companion,  was  evidently  the  very  apple  of  his 
eye.  Our  good  farmer  vaunted  her  accomplishments  as 
juen  of  his  class  are  wont  to  boast  of  a  high-bred  horse 
or  a  favorite  greyhound.  She  could  make  a  shirt  and  a 
pudding,  darn  stockings,  rear  poultry,  keep  accounts,  and 
read  the  newspaper ;  was  as  famous  for  gooseberry  wine  as 
Mrs.  Primrose,  and  could  compound  a  syllabub  with  any 
dairy-woman  in  the  county.  There  was  not  such  a 
handy  little  creature  any  where ;  so  thoughtful  and  trusty 


THE    RUSTIC    WREATH.  87 

about  the  house,  and  yet,  out  of  doors,  as  gay  as  a  lark, 
and  as  wild  as  the  wind :  nobody  was  like  his  Dora. 
So  said  and  so  thought  Farmer  Creswell;  and,  before  Dora 
was  ten  years  old,  he  had  resolved  that,  in  due  time,  she 
should  marry  his  son  Walter,  and  had  informed  both  par- 
ties of  his  intention. 

Now,  Farmer  CreswelPs  intentions  were  well  known  to 
be  as  unchangeable  as  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Per- 
sians. He  was  a  fair  specimen  of  an  English  yeoman,  a 
tall,  square-built,  muscular  man,  stout  and  active,  with  a 
resolute  countenance,  a  keen  eye,  and  an  intelligent  smile : 
his  temper  was  boisterous  and  irascible,  generous  and  kind 
to  those  whom  he  loved,  but  quick  to  take  offence,  and 
slow  to  pardon,  expecting  and  exacting  implicit  obedience 
from  all  about  him.  With  all  Dora's  good  gifts,  the  sweet 
and  yielding  nature  of  the  gentle  and  submissive  little  girl 
was,  undoubtedly,  the  chief  cause  of  her  uncle's  partiality. 
Above  all,  he  was  obstinate  in  the  very  highest  degree, 
had  never  been  known  to  yield  a  point  or  change  a  resolu- 
tion ;  and  the  fault  was  the  more  inveterate,  because  he 
called  it  firmness,  and  accounted  it  a  virtue.  For  the  rest, 
he  was  a  person  of  excellent  principle  and  perfect  integ- 
rity ;  clear-headed,  prudent,  and  sagacious;  fond  of  agri- 
cultural experiments,  and  pursuing  them  cautiously  and 
successfully;  a  good  farmer,  and  a  good  man. 

His  son  Walter,  who  was,  in  person,  a  handsome  like- 
ness of  his  father,  resembled  him,  also,  in  many  points  of 
character ;  was  equally  obstinate,  and  far  more  fiery,  hot, 
and  bold.  He  loved  his  pretty  cousin  much  as  he  would 
have  loved  a  favorite  sister,  and  might,  very  possibly,  if 
let  alone,  have  become  attached  to  her  as  his  father  wish- 
ed :  but  to  be  dictated  to,  to  be  chained  down  to  a  distant 
engagement;  to  hold  himself  bound  to  a  mere  child, — the 
very  idea  was  absurd ;  and  restraining,  with  difficulty,  an 
abrupt  denial,  he  walked  down  into  the  village,  predis- 
posed, out  of  sheer  contradiction,  to  fall  in  love  with  the 


88  THE    RUSTIC    WREATH. 

first  young  woman  who  should  come  in  his  way ;  and  he 
did  fall  in  love  accordingly. 

Mary  Hay,  the  object  of  his  ill-fated  passion,  was  the 
daughter  of  the  respectable  mistress  of  a  small  endowed 
school  at  the  other  side  of  the  parish.  She  was  a  delicate, 
interesting  creature,  with  a  slight,  drooping  figure,  and  a 
fair,  downcast  face,  like  a  snow-drop,  forming  such  a  con- 
trast with  her  gay  and  gallant  wooer,  as  Love,  in  his  vaga- 
ries, is  often  pleased  to  bring  together.  The  courtship 
was  secret  and  tedious,  and  prolonged  from  months  to 
years;  for  Mary  shrank  from  the  painful  contest  which 
she  knew  that  an  avowal  of  their  attachment  would  occa- 
sion. At  length  her  mother  died ;  and,  deprived  of  a  home 
and  maintenance,  she  reluctantly  consented  to  a  private 
marriage.  An  immediate  discovery  ensued,  and  was  fol- 
lowed by  all  the  evils,  and  more  than  all,  that  her  worst 
fears  had  anticipated.  Her  husband  was  turned  from  the 
house  of  his  father ;  and,  in  less  than  three  months,  his 
death,  by  an  inflammatory  fever,  left  her  a  desolate  and 
pennyless  widow;  unowned  and  unassisted  by  the  stern 
parent,  on  whose  unrelenting  temper  neither  the  death  of 
his  son,  nor  the  birth  of  his  grandson,  seemed  to  make 
the  slightest  impression.  But  for  the  general  sympathy 
excited  by  the  deplorable  situation  and  blameless  deport- 
ment of  the  widowed  bride,  she  and  her  infant  must  have 
taken  refuge  in  the  workhouse.  The  whole  neighborhood 
was  zealous  to  relieve  and  to  serve  them;  but  their  most 
liberal  benefactress,  their  most  devoted  friend,  was  poor 
Dora.  Considering  her  uncle's  partiality  to  herself  as  the 
primary  cause  of  all  this  misery,  she  felt  like  a  guilty 
creature ;  and  casting  off,  at  once,  her  native  timidity  and 
habitual  submission,  she  had  repeatedly  braved  his  anger, 
by  the  most  earnest  supplications  for  mercy  and  for  par- 
don;  and,  when  this  proved  unavailing,  she  tried  to  miti- 
gate their  distresses  by  all  the  assistance  that  her  small 
means  would  admit.  Every  shilling  of  her  pocket-money 


THE    RUSTIC    WREATH.  89 

she  expended  on  her  dear  cousins;  worked  for  them,  beg- 
ged for  them,  and  transferred  to  them  every  present  that 
was  made  to  herself,  from  the  silk  frock  to  a  penny  tartlet. 
Every  thing  that  was  her  own  she  gave,  but  nothing  of 
her  uncle's ;  for,  though  sorely  tempted  to  transfer  some 
of  the  plenty  around  her  to  those  whose  claim  seemed  so 
just,  and  whose  need  was  so  urgent,  Dora  felt  that  she 
was  trusted,  and  that  she  must  prove  herself  trustworthy. 

Such  was  the  posture  of  affairs  at  the  time  of  my  en- 
counter with  Dora  and  little  Walter  in  the  harvest  field : 
the  rest  will  be  best  told  in  the  course  of  our  dialogue : — 

"  And  so,  madam,  I  cannot  bear  to  see  my  dear  cousin 
Mary  so  sick  and  so  melancholy ;  and  the  dear,  dear  child, 
that  a  king  might  be  proud  of — only  look  at  him ! "  ex- 
claimed Dora,  interrupting  herself,  as  the  beautiful  child, 
sitting  on  the  ground,  in  all  the  placid  dignity  of  infancy, 
looked  up  at  me,  and  smiled  in  my  face.  "  Only  look  at 
him !  "  continued  she,  "  and  think  of  that  dear  boy,  and 
his  dear  mother,  living  on  charity,  and  they  my  uncle's 
lawful  heirs,  whilst  I,  that  have  no  right  whatsoever,  no 
claim,  none  at  all — I  that,  compared  to  them,  am  but  a  fa"r- 
off  kinswoman,  the  mere  creature  of  his  bounty,  should 
revel  in  comfort  and  in  plenty,  and  they  starving !  I  can- 
not bear  it,  and  I  will  not.  And  then  the  wrong  that  he 
is  doing  himself;  he,  that  is  really  so  good  and  kind,  to  be 
called  a  hard-hearted  tyrant  by  the  whole  country  side. 
And  he  is  unhappy  himself,  too ;  I  know  that  he  is.  So 
tired  as  he  comes  home,  he  will  walk  about  his  room  half 
the  night ;  and  often,  at  meal  times,  he  will  drop  his  knife 
and  fork,  and  sigh  so  heavily !  He  may  turn  me  out  of 
doors,  as  he  threatened ;  or,  what  is  worse,  call  me  un- 
grateful or  undutiful,  but  he  shall  see  this  boy." 

"He  never  has  seen  him,  then?  and  that  is  why  you 
are  tricking  him  out  so  prettily  ?  " 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  Mind  what  I  told  you,  Walter ;  and 
hold  up  your  hat,  and  say  what  I  bid  you." 


90  THE    RUSTIC    WREATH. 

"  Gan-papa's  fovvers  !  "  stammered  the  pretty  boy,  in  his 
sweet,  childish  voice,  the  first  words  that  I  had  ever  heard 
him  speak. 

"  Grand-papa's  flowers  !  "  said  his  zealous  preceptress. 

"  Gan-papa's  fowers  ! "  echoed  the  boy. 

"  Shall  you  take  the  child  to  the  house,  Dora?"  asked  I. 

"  No,  ma'am.  I  look  for  my  uncle  here  every  minute; 
and  this  is  the  best  place  to  ask  a  favor  in,  for  the  very 
sight  of  the  great  crop  puts  him  in  good  humor ;  not  so 
much  on  account  of  the  profits,  but  because  the  land  never 
bore  half  so  much  before,  and  it's  all  owing  to  his  man- 
agement in  dressing  and  drilling.  I  came  reaping  here 
to-day  on  purpose  to  please  him ;  for  though  he  says  he 
does  not  wish  me  to  work  in  the  fields,  I  know  he  likes  it ; 
and  here  he  shall  see  little  Walter.  Do  you  think  he  can 
resist  him,  ma'am?"  continued  Dora,  leaning  over  her  in- 
fant cousin,  with  the  grace  and  fondness  of  a  young  Ma- 
donna; "do  you  think  he  can  resist  him,  poor  child,  so 
helpless,  so  harmless ;  his  own  blood  too,  and  so  like  his 
father?  No  heart  could  be  hard  enough  to  hold  out;  and 
I  am  sure  that  his  will  not.  Only,"  pursued  Dora,  relapsing 
into  her  girlish  tone  and  attitude,  as  a  cold  fear  crossed 
her  enthusiastic  hope — "  only  I'm  half  afraid  that  Walter 
will  cry.  It's  strange,  when  one  wants  any  thing  to  be- 
have particularly  well,  how  sure  it  is  to  be  naughty;  my 
pets,  especially.  I  remember  when  my  lady  countess 
came  on  purpose  to  see  our  white  peacock,  that  we  got  in 
a  present  from  India,  the  obstinate  bird  ran  away  behind 
a  bean-stack,  and  would  not  spread  his  train,  to  show  the 
dead  white  spots  on  his  glossy  white  feathers,  all  we  could 
do.  Her  ladyship  was  quite  angry.  And  my  red  and 
yellow  marvel  of  Peru,  which  used  to  blow  at  four  in  the 
afternoon,  as  regular  as  the  clock  struck,  was  not  open  at 
five,  the  other  day,  when  dear  Miss  Julia  came  to  paint  it, 
though  the  sun  was  shining  as  bright  as  it  does  now.  If 
Walter  should  scream  and  cry!  for  my  uncle  does  some- 


THE    RUSTIC    WREATH.  91 

times  look  so  stern ;  and  then  it's  Saturday,  and  he  has 
such  a  beard !  If  the  child  should  be  frightened !  Be 
sure,  Walter,  that  you  don't  cry,"  said  Dora,  in  great 
alarm. 

"  Gan-papa's  fowers  !  "  replied  the  smiling  boy,  holding 
up  his  hat ;  and  his  young  protectress  was  comforted. 

At  this  moment,  the  farmer  was  heard  whistling  to  his 
dog,  in  a  neighboring  field  ;  and,  fearful  that  my  presence 
might  injure  the  cause,  I  departed,  my  thoughts  full  of  the 
noble  little  girl  and  her  generous  purpose. 

I  had  promised  to  call  the  next  afternoon,  to  learn  her 
success ;  and,  passing  the  harvest  field  in  my  way,  found 
a  group  assembled  there  which  instantly  dissipated  my 
anxiety.  On  the  very  spot  where  we  had  parted,  I  saw 
the  good  farmer  himself,  in  his  Sunday  clothes,  tossing 
little  Walter  in  the  air ;  the  child  laughing  and  screaming 
with  delight,  and  his  grandfather  apparently  quite  as  much 
delighted  as  himself.  A  pale,  slender  young  woman,  in 
deep  mourning,  stood  looking  at  their  gambols,  with  an 
air  of  intense  thankfulness ;  and  Dora,  the  cause  and  the 
sharer  of  all  this  happiness,  was  loitering  behind,  playing 
with  the  flowers  in  Walter's  hat,  which  she  was  holding  in 
her  hand.  Catching  my  eye,  the  sweet  girl  came  to  me 
instantly. 

"I  see  how  it  is,  my  dear  Dora;  and  I  give  you  joy, 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart.  Little  Walter  behaved  well, 
then?" 

"  O,  he  behaved  like  an  angel !  " 

"Did  he  say  'Gan-papa's  fowers'?" 

"  Nobody  spoke  a  word.  The  moment  the  child  took 
off  his  hat  and  looked  up,  the  truth  seemed  to  flash  on  my 
uncle,  and  to  melt  his  heart  at  once ;  the  boy  is  so  like  his 
father.  He  knew  him  instantly,  and  caught  him  up  in  his 
arms,  and  hugged  him,  just  as  he  is  hugging  him  now." 

"  And  the  beard,  Dora  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  seemed  to  take  the  child's  fancy :  he  put 


92       THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

up  his  little  hands  and  stroked  it,  and  laughed  in  his 
grandfather's  face,  and  flung  his  chubby  arms  round  his 
neck,  and  held  out  his  sweet  mouth  to  be  kissed ;  and  O 
how  my  uncle  did  kiss  him!  I  thought  he  would  never 
have  done ;  and  then  he  sat  down  on  a  wheat-sheaf,  and 
cried  ;  and  I  cried,  too.  Very  strange,  that  one  should  cry 
for  happiness ! "  added  Dora,  as  some  large  drops  fell  on 
the  rustic  wreath  which  she  was  adjusting  round  Walter's 
hat.  "  Very  strange,"  repeated  she,  looking  up,  with  a 
bright  smile,  and  brushing  away  the  tears  from  her  rosy 
cheeks,  with  a  bunch  of  corn-flowers — "very  strange, 
that  I  should  cry,  when  I  am  the  happiest  creature  alive ; 
for  Mary  and  Walter  are  to  live  with  us;  and  my  dear 
uncle,  instead  of  being  angry  with  me,  says  that  he  loves 
me  better  than  ever.  How  very  strange  it  is,"  said  Dora, 
as  the  tears  poured  down,  faster  and  faster,  "  that  I  should 
be  so  foolish  as  to  cry !  " 


THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

ALVAREZ  DE  RAMEIRO  was  the  son  of  a  Portuguese 
marquis,  by  an  English  lady  of  great  beauty  and  consider- 
able fortune.  The  match  was  particularly  obnoxious  to 
the  family  of  the  nobleman;  and  Alvarez,  at  the  death  of 
his  mother,  found  himself  heir  to  her  English  estates,  and 
to  the  cordial  dislike  of  his  Portuguese  relations ;  but  he 
was  of  a  light  heart  and  free  spirit,  and  found  an  antidote 
to  their  coldness  and  neglect  in  his  contempt  for  their 
opinion.  It  naturally  followed,  however,  that  he  was  often, 
as  much  "  upon  compulsion  "  as  from  choice,  left  to  the 
society  of  his  own  reflections,  which,  as  he  possessed  a 
tolerably  well-stored  mind  and  a  clear  conscience,  were 
very  endurable  company. 


THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER.       93 

In  one  of  the  solitary  rambles,  in  which  it  was  his  wont 
to  indulge,  he  found  himself  in  the  vicinity  of  the  pleas- 
ure-grounds attached  to  a  villa  within  a  league  of  Lisbon, 
the  country  residence  of  a  British  merchant.  As  he 
approached  the  garden,  which  was  separated  from  the 
road  by  a  deep  moat,  he  perceived,  walking  on  a  slight  ele- 
vation or  terrace,  a  young  lady,  whose  form  and  counte- 
nance were  so  entirely  to  his  taste,  that  his  eyes  followed 
her  with  an  earnestness,  which,  had  she  observed  it,  might 
not  have  impressed  her  with  a  very  favorable  notion  of  his 
good  manners.  Whether  he  was  desirous  of  quenching 
the  incipient  flame  in  his  bosom,  by  rushing  into  the  oppo- 
site element,  or  of  arriving  at  his  object  by  the  shortest 
possible  cut  (overlooking  in  his  haste  the  parenthesis  of 
the  ditch),  it  is  neither  possible  nor  essential  for  me  to 
state  ;  but  certain  it  is,  that  the  lady  was  roused  from  her 
meditations  by  the  noise  of  a  sudden  plunge  in  the  water; 
and,  on  turning  round,  she  saw  a  portion  of  a  mantle 
floating  on  the  moat,  and,  immediately  afterwards,  the  hap- 
less owner  floundering  about,  either  ignorant  of  the  art  of 
swimming,  or  incapacitated  for  efficient  exertion  by  his 
cloak  and  appended  finery. 

The  lady  did  not  shriek  out,  for  she  knew  that  the  gar- 
dener was  deaf,  and  that  her  cries  would  not  reach  the 
mansion :  she  did  not  tear  her  hair,  for,  unless  she  could 
have  made  a  rope  of  it,  there  had  been  little  wisdom  in 
that ;  but  she  did  better ;  she  seized  a  rake,  and,  ap- 
proaching as  near  to  the  moat  as  she  could,  literally  hook- 
ed him  into  shallow  water,  whence  he  was  enabled  to  gain 
the  terrace,  where  he  stood  before  her  dripping  like  a 
river-god,  and  sputtering  thanks  and  duck-weed  in  great 
profusion.  Never  did  human  being  present  a  more  equivo- 
cal appearance  than  did  Alvarez  on  this  occasion,  covered, 
as  he  was,  with  mud  and  weeds.  The  damsel,  at  the 
sight  of  him,  scrambling  up  the  bank,  was  almost  induced 
to  exclaim,  with  Trinculo,  "What  have  we  here? — a  man 


94       THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

or  a  fish?"  And,  indeed,  until  "the  creature  found  a 
tongue,"  it  would  have  been  no  easy  task  for  Linnaeus 
himself  to  determine  the  class  of  animals  to  which  he  be- 
longed. No  meeting  between  fair  lady  and  gallant  knight 
could,  by  possibility,  be  more  unromantic ;  nay,  'twas  the 
most  common-place  thing  conceivable :  whatever  may 
have  been  the  cavalier's  sensations,  she  did  not  fall  in  love 
with  him ;  for  her  first  impulse,  on  seeing  him  safely  land- 
ed, was  to  laugh  most  incontinently;  and  love,  as  my 
friend  the  corporal  hath  it,  is  "the  most  serious  thing 
in  life." 

"  I  pray  you,  senora,"  said  Alvarez,  as  soon  as  he  re- 
covered himself,  "  to  accept  my  humblest  apologies  for  in- 
truding upon  you  so  extraordinary  an  apparition." 

"Apparition! — nay,  senor,  you  are  encumbered,  some- 
what too  pertinaciously,  methinks,  with  the  impurities  of 
earth  to  be  mistaken  for  any  thing  of  the  kind ;  unless  you 
lay  claim  to  the  spiritual  character  on  the  score  of  your 
intangibility,  which  I  have  not  the  slightest  inclination  to 
dispute ;  and  as  for  your  apologies,  you  had  better  render 
them  to  those  unoffending  fishes  whose  peaceful  retreat 
you  have  so  unceremoniously  invaded;  for  you  have  raised 
a  tempest  where,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  there  has  not 
been  a  ripple  for  these  twelve  months." 

"  Indeed,  fair  lady,  I  owe  them  no  apologies,  since  but 
for  you  I  had  been  their  food.  Yon  moat,  although  not 
wide  enough  to  swim  in,  possesses  marvellous  facilities  for 
drowning." 

At  this  instant,  the  merchant  himself  entered  the 
grounds,  and  approached  the  scene  of  the  interview 
His  daughter  immediately  introduced  her  unbidden  guest. 
"  Allow  me,  my  dear  papa,  to  present  to  you  a  gentleman 
who  brings  with  him  the  latest  intelligence  from  the  bot- 
tom of  the  rnoat.  Behold  him  dripping  with  his  creden- 
tials, and  the  bearer  of  a  specimen  of  the  soil,  and  a  few 
aquatic  plants  peculiar  to  the  region  he  has  explored,  and 


THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER.        95 

of  which,  having  landed  on  your  territories,  he  politely  re- 
quests you  to  relieve  him." 

"  You  are  a  saucy  jade,"  said  the  merchant;  "and,  but 
that  I  know  your  freaks  ever  stop  short  of  actual  mischief, 
1  could  almost  suspect  you  of  having  pushed  him  in." 

"  Nay,  papa,  that  could  not  be ;  we  were  on  opposite 
sides  of  the  moat." 

"  You  forget,  lady,"  rejoined  the  cavalier,  wno  oegan 
to  recover  his  spirits,  "  that  attraction  is  often  as  powerful 
an  agent  as  repulsion,  and  that  therefore  your  father's  con- 
jecture as  to  the  cause  of  my  misfortune  may  not  be  alto- 
gether groundless." 

"  I  beseech  you,  senor,"  said  the  daughter,  "  to  reserve 
your  compliments  for  your  next  visit  to  the  naiads  of  the 
inoat,  to  whom  they  are  more  justly  due,  and  cannot  fail 
to  be  acceptable  from  a  gentleman  of  your  amphibious 
propensities.  I  hope  our  domestics  will  be  careful  in  di 
vesting  you  of  that  plaster  of  mud : — I  should  like  the 
cast  amazingly." 

During  this  colloquy  the  party  were  approaching  the 
mansion,  where  Alvarez  was  accommodated  with  a  tem- 
porary change  of  attire;  and  it  is  certain  that,  if  the  dam- 
sel was  not  captivated  by  his  first  appearance,  her  heart 
was  still  less  in  danger  when  she  beheld  him  encased  in 
her  father's  habiliments — "  a  world  too  wide"  for  him — 
the  merchant  being  somewhat  of  the  stoutest,  while  the 
fair  proportions  of  his  guest  were  not  encumbered  with 
any  exuberance  of  flesh. 

Thus  originated  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  Wentworth 
and  his  fair  daughter  with  the  most  gallant  of  all  Portu- 
guese cavaliers,  Alvarez  de  Rameiro — an  acquaintance 
which,  as  their  amiable  qualities  mutually  developed  them- 
selves, ripened  into  friendship.  Alvarez  exhibited  a  frank- 
ness of  manner  which  never  bordered  upon  rudeness,  and 
was  equally  remote  from  assurance ;  while  the  liberality 
of  his  opinions  indicated  an  elevation  of  mind  that  the 


96       THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

bigotry  amid  which  he  had  been  educated  had  not  been 
able  to  overthrow.  These  qualities  well  accorded  with  the 
straight-forward  disposition  of  the  Englishman,  who  proba- 
bly found  them  scarce  in  Lisbon,  and  rendered  the  society 
of  the  young  foreigner  more  than  ordinarily  agreeable 
to  him. 

It  happened,  one  afternoon  in  the  summer,  that  the 
merchant  and  Alvarez  were  enjoying  their  glass  of  wine 
and  cigar,  while  Mary  Wentworth  was  attending  to  some 
plants  in  a  grass-plot  before  the  window.  Mr.  Wentwortb 
had  told  his  last  story,  which  was  rather  of  the  longest ; 
but,  as  his  notions  of  hospitality,  in  furnishing  his  table, 
included  conversation  as  well  as  refection,  he  made  a 
point  of  keeping  it  up;  and,  with  this  general  object, 
rather  than  any  particular  one, — for  he  had  great  simplici- 
ty of  heart, — he  filled  his  glass,  and,  passing  the  decanter  to 
his  guest,  resumed  the  conversation.  "  It  has  occurred  to 
me,  Alvarez,  that  your  attentions  to  my  Mary  have  been 
somewhat  pointed  of  late.  Fili  your  glass,  man,  and  don't 
keep  your  hand  on  the  bottle  :  it  heats  the  wine." 

"  Then,  sir,  my  conduct  has  not  belied  my  feelings ; 
for  I  certainly  do  experience  much  gratification  in  Miss 
Wentworth's  society,  and  her  father  is  the  last  person 
from  whom  I  should  desire  to  conceal  it." 

"  Then  have  the  kindness  to  push  the  cigar-dish  a  little 
nearer,  for  mine  is  out." 

"  I  hope,  sir,  that  my  attentions  to  your  daughter  have 
not  been  offensive  to  her." 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,  for  I  never  asked  her." 

"  Nor  to  yourself,  I  trust." 

"  No,  or  you  would  not  have  had  so  many  opportunities 
of  paying  them." 

"  They  have  occasioned  you  no  anxiety  or  uneasiness, 
then,  sir  2  " 

"  Nay,  your  own  honor  is  my  warrant  against  that;  snd 
I  have  the  collateral  security  of  her  prudence." 


THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER.       97 

"  May  1,  then,  without  offence,  inquire  whither  your 
observations  tend,  and  why  you  have  introduced  the 
subject?" 

"  In  the  first  instance,  simply  for  want  of  something 
else  to  talk  about ;  but,  now  we  are  upon  the  subject,  it 
may  be  as  well  to  know  your  views  in  paying  the  atten- 
tions to  which  I  have  referred." 

"  When  I  tell  you  honestly  that  I  love  your  daughter,  you 
will  not,  with  the  confidence  you  are  pleased  to  place  in 
my  honor,  have  any  difficulty  in  guessing  them." 

"  Guessing  is  not  my  forte,  and  therefore  I  ever  hated 
riddles  :  they  puzzle  the  understanding  without  improving 
it.  Speak  out." 

"  Why,  sir,  with  your  sanction,  to  make  her  my  wife." 

"  Then  you  will  do  a  very  foolish  thing ;  that  is,  always 
supposing  that  my  daughter  has  no  objection  to  your 
scheme ;  and  we,  both  of  us,  appear  to  have  left  her  pretty 
much  out  of  the  argument.  Pray,  is  she  aware  at  all  of 
the  preference  with  which  you  are  pleased  to  honor  her  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  told  her,  because  I  know  not  how  she 
would  receive  the  declaration  ;  and  I  prize  your  daughter's 
good  opinion  too  dearly  to  desire  to  look  like  a  simpleton 
before  her." 

"Well,  there's  some  sense  in  that.  By  the  way,  Alva- 
rez, without  any  particular  reference  to  the  subject  we  are 
discussing,  let  me  exhort  you,  whenever  you  make  a  dec- 
laration of  your  love  to  a  woman,  never  do  it  upon  your 
knees." 

"Why  not,  sir?" 

"Because  it  is  the  most  inconvenient  position  possible 
for  marching  off  the  field;  and,  in  the  event  of  a  repulse, 
the  sooner  a  man  quits  it  the  better." 

"  But,  sir,  I  maintain,  and  I  speak  it  under  favor,  and 
with  all  deference  to  the  sex,  that  the  man  who  exposes 
himself  to  the  humiliation  of  a  refusal  richly  merits  it." 

"As  how?" 
9 


98       THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  Because  he  must  be  blind,  if  he  cannot,  within  a 
reasonable  period,  find  out  whether  his  suit  be  acceptable 
or  not,  and  a  fool  if  he  declares  himself  before." 

"  You  think  so,  do  you  1  Then  be  so  good  as  to  push 
over  that  plate  of  olives ;  and,  as  I  said  before,  in  refer- 
ence to  your  matrimonial  project,  I  think  it  a  very  foolish 
one." 

"In  what  respect,  sir,  may  I  ask?" 

"  In  the  first  place,  it  is  the  custom  in  England  for  a 
man  and  his  wife  to  go  to  church  together ;  and  you  were 
born  a  Catholic." 

"  Only  half  a  one,  sir :  my  mother  was  a  Protestant." 

"  And  a  heretic." 

"  No,  sir :  my  sainted  mother  was  a  Christian." 

"  You  do  not  mean  to  call  yourself  a  Protestant?  " 

"  I  do,  indeed,  sir." 

"  Then  let  me  tell  you,  that  your  religion  is  the  most 
unfashionable  in  all  Lisbon,  and  somewhat  dangerous 
withal." 

"  Have  you  found  it  so?  " 

"  Nay  ;  I  am  of  a  country  which  is  given  to  resent  as  a 
nation  an  injury  done  to  an  individual  member  of  it ;  and 
as  a  British  fleet  in  the  bay  of  Lisbon  would  not  be  the 
most  agreeable  sight  to  the  good  folk  of  this  Catholic  city, 
I  presume  I  may  profess  what  religion  I  please,  without 
incurring  any  personal  risk :  but  you  have  no  such  safe- 
guard ;  and,  although  my  daughter  might  have  no  great 
objection  to  your  goodly  person  as  it  is,  she  might  not 
relish  it  served  up  as  a  grill,  according  to  the  approved 
method,  in  this  most  orthodox  country,  of  freeing  the  spirit 
from  its  earthly  impurities." 

"  You  talk  very  coolly,  my  dear  sir,  upon  a  rather 
warm  subject ;  but  I  assure  you  I  am  under  no  apprehen- 
sions on  that  score." 

"Well,  admitting  that  you  are  justified  in  considering 
yourself  safe,  do  you  think  that  an  alliance  with  the 


THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER.       99 

daughter  of  a  merchant,  and  a  foreigner,  would  be  other- 
wise than  obnoxious  to  your  family?" 

"Why,  as  to  that,  my  affectionate  brothers-in-law,  not 
reckoning  upon  the  pleasure  of  my  society  in  the  next 
world,  have  not  been  at  much  pains  to  cultivate  it  in  this; 
and  therefore  I  apprehend  I  am  not  bound  to  consult  their 
wishes  in  the  matter." 

The  conversation  was  here  interrupted  by  the  en- 
trance of  Miss  Wentworth;  and  the  subject  was  of  course 
changed. 

The  explanation  which  had  taken  place  between  the 
merchant  and  Alvarez  was  followed  by  an  equally  good 
understanding  between  the  latter  and  the  young  lady  ;  and 
it  was  finally  arranged  among  them  that  Mr.  Wentworth, 
who  had  been  eminently  successful  in  his  commercial  pur- 
suits in  Lisbon,  should  only  remain  to  close  his  accounts, 
and  convert  his  large  property  into  bills  and  specie,  for 
the  purpose  of  remitting  it  to  London,  when  the  whole 
party,  Alvarez  himself  having  no  ties  to  bind  him  to  his 
own  country,  should  embark  for  England,  where  the  union 
of  the  young  people  was  to  take  place. 

But,  alas !  "  the  course  of  true  love  never  did  run 
smooth  ;  "  and  scarcely  had  the  preliminary  arrangements 
been  completed,  when  the  merchant  was  seized  with  an  in- 
flammatory fever,  which  terminated  in  his  death,  leaving 
his  daughter,  who  loved  him  to  a  degree  of  enthusiasm 
which  such  a  parent  might  well  inspire,  overwhelmed  by 
sorrow,  a  stranger  in  a  foreign  land,  and  without  a  friend  in 
the  world  but  Alvarez,  whose  ability  to  protect  her  fell  in- 
finitely short  of  his  zeal  and  devotion  to  her  service.  Still, 
however,  he  could  comfort  and  advise  with  her;  and  she 
looked  up  to  him  with  all  that  confiding  affection  which 
the  noble  qualities  of  his  heart,  and  the  honorable  tenor 
of  his  conduct,  could  not  fail  to  create.  But  even  he,  her 
only  stay,  was  shortly  taken  from  her.  The  holy  office, 
having  gained  information  of  their  intention  of  quitting 
Lisbon  with  the  property  of  the  deceased  merchant,  avail- 


100      THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

ed  itselt  of  the  pretext  afforded  by  the  religious  profession 
of  Alvarez  to  apprehend  and  confine  him,  as  the  most 
effectual  means  of  delaying  the  embarkation,  relying  on 
ulterior  measures  for  obtaining  possession  of  the  wealth 
of  their  victims. 

Mary  Wentworth's  was  not  a  mind  to  sink  supinely  un- 
der misfortune,  for  she  had  much  energy  of  character ; 
but  this  last  blow  was  enough  to  paralyze  it  all.  She  had 
no  difficulty  to  guess  at  the  object  of  the  holy  office ;  and 
she  knew  that  if  any  measure  could  avail  her  in  this  emer- 
gency, it  must  be  speedily  adopted.  But  the  power  of  the 
inquisition  was  a  fearful  one  to  contend  with.  There  was 
but  one  man  in  Lisbon  who  could  aid  her,  and  to  him  she 
was  a  stranger ;  yet  to  him  she  determined  to  appeal. 

The  name  of  Sebastian  Joseph  de  Carvalho,  marquis 
of  Pombal,  will  be  familiar,  to  those  who  are  conversant 
with  the  history  of  Portugal,  as  that  of  the  prime  minister 
of  King  Joseph ;  to  which  elevation  he  appears  to  have 
risen  from  circumstances  of  extreme  indigence  and  the 
humble  rank  of  a  corporal.  He  is  represented  to  have 
been  a  man  of  enlarged  mind,  uncommon  personal  cour- 
age, and  great  decision  of  character.  On  the  other  hand, 
he  is  said  to  have  exhibited  a  haughty,  overbearing  spirit, 
to  have  executed  justice  with  extreme  severity,  and  evin- 
ced a  cruel  and  ferocious  disposition.  It  is,  nevertheless, 
universally  admitted,  that,  in  the  majority  of  his  political 
acts,  he  had  the  good  of  his  country  at  heart,  which  is  evi- 
denced by  the  wisdom  with  which  he  met,  and  the  suc- 
cess with  which  he  alleviated,  the  public  calamities  con- 
sequent upon  the  earthquake  at  Lisbon  in  1755 ;  by  the 
salutary  restraints  which  he  imposed  upon  an  arrogant 
aristocracy,  as  well  as  upon  the  tyranny  of  the  inquisition ; 
and  by  the  decided  measures  by  which  he  contributed  to 
overthrow  the  power  of  the  Jesuits.  In  person,  he  was 
of  gigantic  stature;  and  his  countenance  was  so  singular- 
ly marked  and  imposing,  that  a  nobleman,  who  had  open- 
ed his  carriage  door  with  the  intention  of  assassinating 


THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER.       101 

him,  was  deterred  from  his  purpose  by  its  awful  and  ter- 
rible expression. 

To  this  man,  whom  the  boldest  could  not  approach 
without  awe,  Mary  Wentworth  resolved  to  appeal.  It  was 
night  when  she  presented  herself  at  his  palace,  where  she 
was  refused  admittance.  While,  however,  she  was  parley- 
ing with  the  sentinel,  Carvalho's  steward,  who  had  accom- 
panied his  master  on  his  embassy  to  the  court  of  London, 
approached  the  gate,  and,  being  interested  by  her  English 
accent,  caused  her  to  be  admitted.  He  inquired  the  nature 
of  her  business  with  the  minister,  which  she  briefly  ex- 
plained to  him. 

"  Alas,  my  daughter,"  said  the  old  man,  "  I  fear  your 
errand  to  Carvalho  will  prove  a  fruitless  one.  I  may  not 
safely  procure  you  an  interview ;  but  your  countrymen, 
while  I  sojourned  among  them,  were  kind  to  me,  and  I 
would  peril  something  to  do  you  this  service.  Fol- 
low me." 

He  preceded  her  up  a  flight  of  stairs,  and,  pointing  to 
a  door  partly  open,  at  the  end  of  a  long  passage,  he  said, 
"  There,  in  that  room  is  he  whom  you  seek :  may  God 
prosper  your  errand."  With  these  words,  he  disappeared 
by  a  side-door,  and  Mary  approached  the  apartment  which 
he  had  pointed  out  as  that  of  Carvalho.  The  door  was 
sufficiently  open  to  admit  her ;  and,  entering,  she  found 
herself  in  a  spacious  and  lofty  room,  from  the  ceiling  of 
which  depended  a  lamp  immediately  over  the  head  of  the 
man  at  whose  frown  all  Lisbon  trembled;  and  when  she 
beheld  his  gigantic  form  and  ferocious  countenance,  she 
felt  that  nothing  short  of  the  stake  which  depended  on  the 
interview  could  induce  her  to  persevere  in  seeking  it. 

His  head  rested  on  his  hand ;  his  brow  was  strongly 
knit ;  and  his  eyes  were  intently  fixed  upon  some  papers. 
The  rustling  of  her  dress,  as  she  drew  near  the  table,  at- 
tracted his  attention.  He  did  not  start,  but,  raising  his 
eyes,  looked  coldly  and  sternly  upon  her,  and,  without 
9* 


102      THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

uttering  a  word,  appeared  to  wait  for  an  explanation  of  so 
extraordinary  an  intrusion. 

Mary  possessed  shrewdness  and  discrimination  enough 
to  perceive  that,  with  a  man  of  Carvalho's  strength  and 
decision  of  character,  nothing  was  more  likely  to  preju- 
dice her  cause  than  circumlocution.  She  therefore  enter- 
ed at  once  upon  her  story,  and  told  it  in  the  fewest  possi- 
ble words,  concluding  with  an  appeal  rather  to  his  justice 
than  to  his  feelings :  and  in  this  she  did  wisely.  He  lis- 
tened without  interrupting  her,  or  betraying  in  his  counte- 
nance the  slightest  indication  of  the  effect  of  her  appeal. 
When  she  had  ended,  he  waited  a  few  moments,  as  if  to 
ascertain  if  she  had  any  thing  more  to  say.  His  reply  was 
— "  Senora,  were  I  to  try  my  strength  with  the  holy  office 
upon  every  occasion  of  its  oppression  and  injustice,  I  should 
have  constant  occupation,  and  gain  little  by  the  contest.  I 
am  not  omnipotent :  I  have  checked  the  power  of  the  in- 
quisition, but  I  cannot  crush  it,  or,  credit  me,  not  one  stone 
of  that  hated  edifice  should  stand  upon  another.  Your  case 
is  hard,  and  I  compassionate  it:  but  I  fear  I  can  do  nothing 
to  aid  you  in  obtaining  redress.  You  say  your  father  was 
a  British  merchant :  what  was  his  name?" 

"  Wentworth,  senor." 

"  Wentworth !  I  have  good  cause  to  recollect  him. 
Of  all  my  political  opponents,  that  man,  if  not  the  most 
powerful,  was  the  most  persevering  and  unbending.  I 
adopted  certain  measures  which  he  considered  to  militate 
against  the  commerce  of  his  country,  and  he  combated 
them  with  all  his  might ;  but  he  did  it  like  a  man,  boldly 
and  open-handed.  In  the  very  heat  of  this  controversy, 
when  the  feelings  of  both  parties  were  at  the  height  of 
their  excitement,  I  was  walking,  unattended,  in  the  streets 
of  Lisbon,  when  a  mob  collected  upon  my  path,  and  dark 
looks  and  threatening  gestures  were  gathering  around  me. 
I  am  not  a  man  to  fly  from  a  rabble :  I  frowned  defiance 
upon  my  assailants,  who  continued  to  press  upon  me;  and 


THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER.      103 

some  of  them  unsheathed  their  daggers.  On  a  sudden, 
and  from  behind  me,  I  was  seized  by  a  powerful  hand, 
dragged  into  a  house,  the  door  of  which  was  instantly 
dosed,  and  found  myself  in  the  presence  of  your  father. 
'  Carvalho,'  said  he,  'you  are  my  enemy  and  my  country's; 
but  you  shall  not  die  a  dog's  death  while  I  can  protect 
you.'  He  kept  his  word  in  defiance  of  the  threats  and 
imprecations  of  the  rabble,  declaring  that  they  should  pull 
his  house  upon  his  head  ere  they  violated  its  sanctuary. 
A  party  of  military  at  last  arrived  and  dispersed  the  riot- 
ers. Your  father,  at  parting,  said  with  a  smile,  '  Now, 
Carvalho,  we  are  foes  again.' — And  is  he  dead? — Then 
have  I  lost  an  enemy  whom  to  bring  back  to  earth  I 
would  freely  surrender  all  who  now  call  themselves  my 
friends.  Marvel  not,  lady,  that  I  am  somewhat  rough  and 
stern  :  ingratitude  hath  made  me  so.  This  city  was  once 
a  ruin  :  gaunt  famine  was  even  in  her  palaces,  and  the 
cry  of  desolation  in  her  streets.  I  gave  bread  to  her  fam- 
ishing people,  raised  her  from  the  dust,  and  made  her  what 
you  see ;  but  I  sowed  blessings,  and  curses  were  the  harvest 
that  I  reaped.  I  have  labored  day  and  night  for  the  good 
of  this  priest-ridden  people ;  and,  because  I  have  consult- 
ed their  welfare  rather  than  their  prejudices,  there  is  not  a 
man  in  Lisbon  who  would  not  plunge  his  dagger  into  my 
heart,  if  he  had  courage  for  the  deed.  A  sense  of  grati- 
tude to  any  human  being  is  new  to  me,  and,  trust  me,  I 
will  indulge  it.  The  debt  I  owe  your  father,  and  which 
his  proud  spirit  would  not  permit  me  to  acknowledge  as  I 
purposed,  I  will  endeavor  to  repay  to  his  child.  Yet  how 
to  aid  you  in  this  matter  I  know  not.  I  have  to  combat 
the  most  powerful  engine  of  the  church,  which,  on  this  oc- 
casion, will  have  the  prejudices  of  the  people  on  its  side." 
The  minister  paced  the  room,  for  a  few  minutes,  thought- 
fully and  perplexed :  at  length  he  resumed — "  The  holy 
brotherhood  are  not  wont  to  do  their  work  by  halves,  and 
you  will  be  their  next  victim.  I  know  of  but  one  way  to 


104      THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

save  you,  and  him  for  whom  you  intercede  :  it  is  replete 
with  peril,  but  it  shall  be  dared.  Go  home  to  your  dwell- 
ing ;  tell  no  one  that  you  have  seen  me ;  and,  happen  what 
may,  I  will  be  with  you  in  the  hour  of  danger,  if  it  be  to 
perish  by  your  side." 

Alvarez  had  been  a  prisoner  three  days,  during  which 
his  treatment  was  in  no  respect  rigorous,  when  he  was 
summoned  before  the  inquisitor.  The  hall  of  audience, 
as  it  was  termed,  was  a  spacious  chamber,  in  the  centre 
of  which,  upon  an  elevation  or  platform,  about  three  inches 
from  the  floor,  was  a  long  table,  covered  with  crimson 
cloth  :  around  it  were  placed  chairs  decorated  with  cross- 
es :  at  one  end  of  it  sat  the  inquisitor,  and  at  the  other  the 
notary  of  the  holy  office.  At  the  extremity  of  the  cham- 
ber was  a  figure  of  the  Saviour  on  the  cross,  which  nearly 
reached  the  ceiling ;  and  immediately  opposite  was  a 
bench  appropriated  to  the  prisoners  during  their  examina- 
tion. The  inquisitor  wore  a  kind  of  cap  with  a  square 
crown  :  the  notary  and  the  prisoner  were,  of  course,  un- 
covered. Alvarez  was  first  commanded  to  lay  his  hand 
on  a  Missal  which  was  on  the  table,  and  swear  that  he 
would  truly  answer  the  interrogatories  which  might  be  put 
to  him.  He  was  then  desired  to  sit  down  upon  the  bench 
which  was  at  the  left  hand  of  the  inquisitor,  who,  after  a 
pause,  said — "  Senor  Alvarez,  you  are  doubtless  aware  of 
the  accusation  upon  which  you  have  been  summoned  be- 
fore this  tribunal." 

"  Conscious  of  no  offence  which  should  have  subjected 
me  to  the  loss  of  my  .liberty,  I  hesitate  not  to  pronounce 
the  accusation  false,  be  it  what  it  may." 

"  You  speak  rashly,  senor :  the  holy  office  is  not  wont 
to  proceed  upon  slight  grounds.  I  pray  you,  therefore,  to 
examine  your  conscience,  and  see  if — not  recently,  per- 
haps, but  in  the  course  of  your  life — you  have  never  com- 
mitted any  offence  of  which  it  is  the  peculiar  province  of 
the  inquisition  to  take  cognizance." 


THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER.      105 

"  I  can  only  repeat  what  I  have  already  said ;  and  if 
any  man  have  aught  against  me,  let  him  stand  forth." 

"  The  holy  office,  for  wise  reasons,  does  not  confront 
the  accuser  and  accused,  as  is  the  custom  in  ordinary 
courts ;  neither  is  it  our  wont  to  declare  the  nature  of  the 
charge,  which  we  rather  refer  to  the  conscience  of  the  de- 
linquent :  but,  willing  that  you  should  meet,  with  as  little 
delay  as  may  be,  the  accusation  which  has  been  brought 
against  you,  I  will  read  it.  It  recites  that,  having  been 
born  of  an  English  mother,  you  have  embraced  the  tenets 
of  the  falsely-called  reformed  religion,  to  the  danger  of 
your  own  soul  and  the  scandal  of  the  true  faith ;  that  you 
have  of  late  been  in  habits  of  close  intercourse  with  a 
pestilent  heretic  of  the  same  country,  since  dead,  and  that 
you  are  on  the  point  of  marriage  with  his  daughter,  also  a 
heretic,  contrary  to  the  canons  of  our  holy  church.  This, 
Senor  Alvarez,  is  the  charge :  what  have  you  to  urge 
against  its  truth?" 

"  God  forbid  that,  in  hesitating  to  confess  what  I  believe 
to  be  the  true  faith,  I  should  deny  its  divine  Author.  You 
have  reproached  me  with  my  English  parentage;  and  if 
the  religion  of  Cranmer,  of  Ridley,  and  of  Latimer,  be 
heresy,  then  am  I  a  heretic ;  and,  if  the  cup  which  was 
presented  to  their  lips  may  not  pass  from  mine,  may  God 
give  me  grace  to  drink  it  as  they  did,  holding  fast  by  the 
faith  to  which  I  have  linked  my  hopes  of  Heaven's 
mercy ! " 

"Nay,  Senor  Alvarez,  the  holy  office  is  not  willing 
that  any  should  perish,  but  rather  rejoiceth  in  the  exercise 
of  that  mercy  which  is  in  its  discretion ;  and,  although 
the  offence  of  which  you  have  confessed  yourself  guilty, 
hath  incurred  the  penalty  of  a  death  of  ignominy  and  tor- 
ture, we  have  power,  by  deferring  the  execution  of  the 
sentence,  to  give  you  time  to  repent ;  so  that,  upon  a  renun- 
ciation of  your  errors,  you  may  finally  be  pardoned,  and 
received  into  the  bosom  of  the  church.  By  a  law,  where- 


106      THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

by  the  goods  of  heretics  are  confiscated,  those  of  the  de- 
ceased merchant,  Wentworth,  become  the  property  of  the 
church;  and  as,  from  your  connection  with  him  and  his 
daughter,  you  cannot  but  be  informed  of  the  nature  and 
disposition  of  his  wealth,  I  call  upon  you,  as  you  would 
propitiate  the  holy  office  by  assisting  in  securing  its 
rights,  to  put  it  in  possession  of  all  you  know  upon  the 
subject." 

"Behold,"  said  Alvarez,  with  a  burst  of  indignation 
which  startled  the  inquisitor,  "  the  cloven  foot  of  the  evil 
one.  Now  listen  to  me.  The  robber  of  the  mountains, 
hath  kept  faith,  and  the  lion  of  the  desert  hath  spared  his 
prey ;  but  with  the  minions  of  the  inquisition  there  is 
neither  faith  nor  mercy.  I  know  that  he  upon  whom 
*  your  dungeons  have  once  closed,  stands  upon  the  brink  of 
the  grave,  and  that  his  life  is  beyond  human  ransom. 
Were  I  to  answer  the  question  you  have  so  insidiously 
proposed,  I  should  not  only  betray  the  trust  reposed  in  me 
by  a  dying  father,  and  make  his  child  a  beggar,  but  I 
should  strengthen  the  hands  of  an  institution  which,  if  its 
power  were  equal  to  its  will,  would  make  this  beauteous 
world  a  howling  wilderness.  I  will  neither  betray  my 
trust  nor  deny  my  faith :  by  God's  grace,  the  last  act  of 
my  life  shall  not  involve  the  double  guilt  of  treachery  and 
apostasy." 

During  this  speech,  the  countenance  of  the  inquisitor 
was  gradually  losing  that  hypocritical  expression  of  mild- 
ness, under  which  those  holy  functionaries  were  accustom- 
ed to  mask  the  most  cruel  and  vindictive  feelings :  his 
face  became  flushed  with  rage,  and  he  exclaimed,  when 
Alvarez  had  finished,  "  You  vaunt  it  bravely,  senor.  We 
will  now  try  that  persuasive  power  which  is  wont  to  make 
our  guests  marvellously  communicative." 

"  You  may  wring  the  blood-drops  from  my  heart,  but 
you  will  not  rob  it  of  its  secret." 

"  Away  with  him  to  the  torture,"  roared  the  inquisitor, 


THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER.       107 

and  immediately  quitted  the  apartment,  while  Alvarez  was 
conducted  by  another  door,  and  through  a  long  passage, 
into  a  spacious  chamber,  from  which  the  light  of  day  was 
entirely  excluded.  The  lamp,  which  was  suspended  from 
the  centre  of  the  ceiling,  was  just  sufficient  to  render  dis- 
tinct the  tribunal  of  the  inquisitor,  the  instruments  of  tor- 
ture, and  the  familiars  who  were  appointed  to  apply  them, 
and  whose  grim,  pale  features  and  frightful  habiliments  im- 
parted additional  horror  to  the  scene.  The  remoter  parts 
of  the  room  were  involved  in  darkness.  Alvarez  looked 
towards  the  tribunal,  and  immediately  recognized  the  in- 
quisitor by  whom  he  had  been  previously  examined,  and 
who  now  addressed  him  with  a  taunting  smile,  and  said, 
"  Well,  Senor  Alvarez,  we  have  met  again :  have  you 
brought  your  boasted  courage  with  you?  " 

"  He  who  hath  laid  this  trial  upon  me,  and  for  whose 
truth  I  suffer,  will  give  me  strength  to  bear  it." 

"  You  will  need  it  all,  senor,  when  your  turn  shall  come ; 
but  we  do  all  things  in  order :  we  have  one  here  before 
you,  by  whose  example  you  may  profit.  Bring  forward 
the  other  prisoner  !  " 

Alvarez  turned  his  eyes  in  the  direction  in  which  the 
inquisitor  looked  as  he  spoke,  and,  with  feelings  of  agony 
and  horror  which  no  language  can  adequately  describe,  he 
beheld  in  the  intended  victim'  his  own  Mary.  A  shriek 
proclaimed  that  her  feelings  at  the  mutual  recognition 
were  not  less  acute  than  his;  and  she  fell  back,  apparently 
lifeless,  into  the  arms  of  her  terrific  attendants. 

Alvarez  turned  to  the  inquisitor,  and  addressed  him,  for 
the  first  time,  in  the  tone  of  supplication.  "If,"  said  he, 
"  there  be  one  instrument  of  torture  more  dreadful  than 
another,  let  me  be  its  victim  :  tear  me  piecemeal,  limb 
from  limb  :  but,  for  the  sake  of  Him  whose  all-seeing  eye 
is  upon  you,  spare,  O  spare  this  beauteous  work  of  his 
hands.  Oh,  if  you  have  a  human  heart,  you  cannot  look 
upon  such  loveliness  and  mar  it.  Oh,  if  yon  image  of 


i08      THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

the  blessed  Jesus  be  not  set  up  in  bitter  mockery  of  his 
meekness  and  his  mercy,  I  beseech  you  harm  her  not." 

"Nay,  senor,"  replied  the  inquisitor,  with  a  laugh  of 
irony,  "  you  drew  so  captivating  a  portrait  of  our  mercy 
in  the  hall  of  audience,  that  it  were  gross  injustice  in  us  to 
prove  it  false.  Let  the  torture  be  applied  to  the  female 
prisoner." 

The  preparations  to  obey  the  mandate  aroused  Mary 
Wentworth  from  her  swoon ;  and  a  faint,  and,  of  course, 
ineffectual  struggle  was  all  she  could  oppose  to  the  appli- 
cation of  the  first  instrument  of  torture  intended  to  be 
used,  namely,  the  thumb-screw.  It  was,  therefore,  soon 
fixed,  and  the  attendants  waited  the  word  from  the  inquisi- 
tor to  draw  the  cords.  This  he  was  in  the  act  of  giving, 
when,  from  the  gloom  in  which  the  extremity  of  the  room 
was  involved,  a  voice  of  thunder  exclaimed,  "  Forbear !  " 
and  immediately  the  speaker  advanced  to  the  front  of  the 
tribunal,  his  arm,  however,  enveloped  in  the  folds  of  his 
mantle,  concealing  his  face  to  the  eyes. 

The  inquisitor  angrily  inquired  who  it  was  that  presum- 
ed to  interrupt  the  proceedings  of  the  court,  and  directed 
the  attendants  to  seize  him.  The  stranger  spoke  not  a 
word,  but,  slowly  dropping  his  arm,  discovered  the  stern 
and  haughty  countenance  of  Carvalho.  The  inquisitor 
started  as  if  a  spectre  had  risen  up  before  him,  but  im- 
mediately recovered  himself. 

"  Senor  Carvalho,"  said  he,  "  this  visit  is  an  honor  for 
which  we  were  not  prepared :  may  I  beg  to  be  informed 
of  its  object?" 

"  Simply  the  liberation  of  these  prisoners." 

"Upon  what  authority  do  you  demand  it?" 

"  My  own  will." 

"  Much  as  we  respect  that,  senor,  it  were  scarcely  suf- 
ficient warrant  to  us  for  their  surrender.     The  circum 
stances  under  which  they  were  arrested  are  such  as  utterly 
to  preclude  us  from  according  to  you  the  courtesy  you  ask." 


THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER.      109 

"As  for  your  respect,  I  know  well  the  standard  by 
which  to  measure  it.  The  circumstances  attending  their 
arrest  have  been  reported  to  me,  and  leave  me  at  no  loss 
to  account  for  your  reluctance  to  give  them  up;  and  as  for 
your  courtesy,  I  pray  you  keep  it  until  it  be  asked.  I  did 
not  come  to  sue  for  their  liberty,  but  to  demand  it." 

"It  may  not  be,  senor ;  the  prisoners  must  pass  to  their 
trial,  where  they  will  have  justice." 

"  Oh,  doubtless !  "  said  Carvalho,  with  a  bitter  smile, 
"  such  justice  as  the  wolf  metes  out  to  the  lamb,  and  the 
vulture  to  the  dove." 

"I  pray  you,  senor,  to  reflect  upon  the  unseasonable- 
ness  of  a  jest  upon  an  occasion  like  this." 

"  In  good  sooth,  jocularity  is  not  my  wont,  or  a  jest 
within  the  torture-room  of  the  holy  office,  from  any  other 
than  an  inquisitor,  would  possess  too  much  of  the  charm 
of  novelty  to  be  forborne.  But,  credit  me,  I  was  never 
more  in  earnest  than  I  am  now.  Be  this  the  proof.  Be- 
fore I  ventured  to  obtrude  myself  into  your  reverend  pres- 
ence, I  left  instructions  with  the  commandant  of  artillery, 
in  obedience  to  which,  if  I  be  not  with  him  in  half  an  hour, 
he  will  open  a  fire  upon  your  walls.  Now  I  depart  not 
alone;  and  you,  who  best  know  how  the  light  of  day  will 
accord  with  the  secrets  of  your  dungeons,  will  make  your 
election  between  surrendering  the  prisoners  or  seeing  this 
edifice  a  smoking  ruin." 

"Senor  Carvalho,"  said  the  inquisitor,  who  had  witness- 
ed too  many  awful  instances  of  the  minister's  veracity,  as 
well  as  of  his  power,  to  doubt,  for  a  moment,  that  his 
threat,  if  disregarded,  would  be  fulfilled  with  a  terrible 
punctuality,  "  in  yielding  to  this  extraordinary  exercise  of 
power,  I  feel  it  my  duty,  in  the  name  of  the  holy  office, 
solemnly  to  protest  against  this  interference  with  its  privi- 
leges; and  you  will  not  be  surprised,  if,  in  our  own  justifi- 
cation, we  find  it  expedient  to  appeal  to  the  pope." 

"  So  did  the  Jesuits ;  and  in  order  that  their  memorial 
10 


110      THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

might  not  miscarry,  I  sent  the  appellants  after  it  by  ship 
loads,  until  his  holiness  heartily  wished  the  appeal  and  the 
locusts  that  followed  it  in  the  Red  Sea.  You  will  do  wise- 
ly to  profit  by  the  warning  which  their  example  should 
convey  to  you." 

Having  said  this,  he  turned  towards  Alvarez  and  Mary 
Wentworth,  and,  passing  an  arm  of  each  through  his  own, 
led  them  unmolested  through  the  several  gates  of  the 
prison.  Mary  glanced  at  his  countenance,  and  perceived 
that  the  sardonic  smile,  which  had  marked  it  while  in  the 
presence  of  the  inquisitor,  had  passed  away,  leaving  in  its 
place  his  wonted  sternness,  softened,  she  thought,  by  some- 
what more  of  solemnity  than  she  had  hitherto  observed 
him  to  assume.  He  walked  on  between  them  in  silence 
until  they  arrived  within  a  few  paces  of  the  principal 
street  in  Lisbon,  when  he  stopped,  and  said — "  Here  we 
part:  I  have  risked  my  power,  and,  it  may  be,  my  life,  to 
save  you.  But  be»  that  my  care :  all  I  ask  of  you  is,  get 
you  out  of  this  city,  for  it  is  no  abiding  place  for  either  of 
you.  There  is  an  English  vessel  in  the  bay ;  this  officer," 
beckoning  to  him  a  person  in  uniform,  whom,  for  the  first 
time,  they  observed  standing  within  a  few  yards  of  them, 
"  will  assist  you  in  getting  your  effects  on  board  :  follow 
them  with  all  despatch :  for  twenty-four  hours  you  are 
safe :  beyond  that  time  I  will  not  answer  for  your  lives. 
Let  me  hear  of  your  arrival  in  England.  May  God  bless 
and  keep  you !  Farewell ! "  He  pressed  the  hand  of 
each,  and  they  saw  him  no  more. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add  that  the  advice  was  fol- 
lowed :  before  half  of  the  allotted  time  had  expired,  they 
were  on  their  voyage,  which  proved  safe  and  prosperous. 

W.  H.  HARRISON. 


LORELEY.  Ill 


LORELEY,  A  RHINE  LEGEND. 

FROM  yon  rock's  topmost  height, 

Where  sleeps  the  fair  moonshine, 
Looks  down  a  lady  bright, 

On  the  dark-flowing  Rhine. 

She  looketh  down  and  over ; 

She  looketh  far  and  wide, 
Where  'er  the  white  sails  hover : — 

Youth,  turn  thine  eyes  aside  ' 

Fair  though  her  smiles  he  to  thee, 

Beware  the  spell  she  flings ; 
She  smiles  but  to  undo  thee  ; 

With  siren  heart  she  sings. 

She  looketh  on  the  river 

As  if  she  looked  on  thee  : 
Heed  not  the  false  deceiver 

Be  deaf,  be  blind,  and  flee. 

For  thus  she  looks  on  strangers  all 

With  witching  eyes  and  bright, 
While  her  streaming  locks  around  her  fall 

In  a  dance  of  golden  light. 

The  light  it  doth  resemble 

The  deep  wave's  deadly  gleam — 
As  deep  and  icy.     Tremble 

To  trust  the  treacherous  stream. 

AN  aged  huntsman  sat  on  a  mossy  stone,  by  the  cave 
of  Goar,  clause  to  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  and  sung  these 
verses  to  the  gentle  murmur  of  the  river,  whose  waves 
bore  a  small  boat,  in  which  a  youth  was  seated.  The  frail 
bark  had  nearly  reached  the  Bank,  a  dangerous  whirlpool 
in  that  part  of  the  river,  which  calls  forth  all  the  art  of 
the  helmsman  to  avoid  being  carried  down  in  it ;  but  the 


1  J  2  LORELEY. 

beautiful  youth,  heedless,  or  unconscious  of  his  danger, 
kept  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  the  summit  of  a  high  rock, 
whence  a  lovely  female  form  looked  down,  and  seemed  to 
smile  sweetly  upon  him. 

The  old  huntsman  raised  his  voice  when  he  beheld  the 
young  man's  peril :  but  he  heard  not  the  warning :  his  lute, 
his  oar,  and  his  cross-bow,  had  all  dropped  unnoticed  into 
the  stream,  and  nought  remained  to  the  entranced  youth 
but  his  cap  and  swan  plume,  which  was  fastened  by  a  rib- 
bon to  his  neck,  while  the  increasing  rush  and  roar  of  the 
waters  rendered  his  situation  more  perilous,  and  the  voice 
of  the  huntsman  less  audible.  It  was  the  lovely  maiden, 
who  sat  on  the  top  of  the  rock,  that  engrossed  the  youth's 
whole  thought  and  sense.  She  seemed  to  gather  glittering 
pebbles  from  the  rock,  and  ever  and  anon  to  cast  them 
merrily  down  into  the  water,  where  they  vanished  in  the 
shining  foam.  The  youth  thought  that  the  beautiful 
maiden  was  smiling  upon  him ;  and  he  sat  motionless,  with 
his  arms  stretched  out  towards  her,  gazing  upon  her  as  on 
a  star,  till  his  little  skiff  was  borne  upon  the  sharp  rocks, 
and  the  whirlpool  threw  its  gigantic  arms  around  the  youth, 
and  drew  him  to  its  breast.  But  the  lovely  Loreley  only 
looked  down  upon  the  scene  as  if  it  pleased  her,  and, 
smiling  like  a  child  from  under  her  beautiful  long  hair, 
threw  down  fresh  pebbles  into  the  boiling  whirlpool. 

The  huntsman  raised  his  bugle-horn,  and  blew  so  wild- 
ly on  it,  that  his  hounds  began  to  howl  around  him,  and 
some  fishermen,  who  were  occupied  at  a  distance  catch- 
ing salmon,  rowed  towards  him;  but  the  youth  was  sunk 
beyond  recovery,  deep,  deep  in  the  whirlpool.  Then 
the  huntsman  said  to  the  fishers,  "  Did  you  see  how  the 
witch  up  yonder  rejoiced  over  the  destruction  of  this  poor 
youth  1  how  she  bent  her  ear  and  listened  to  the  roar  of 
the  waves  whilst  they  sucked  him  in,  and  hissed  over  him, 
as  if  they  mocked  his  silly  love?"  But  a  young  fisher- 
man answered,  "  Is  the  maiden  who  sits  up  there  on  the 


LORELEY.  113 

ley  to  blame  if  an  imprudent  boy  should  gaze  on  her 
with  those  eyes  which  he  never  should  have  turned  away 
from  the  waters?  She  did  not  send  the  whirlpool  to  meet 
him  :  he  himself  rushed  into  his  own  grave."  Then  the 
fishermen  told  the  huntsman  how  sometimes,  in  the  still 
evenings,  the  beautiful  fairy  had  appeared  to  them,  sitting 
quite  close  on  the  banks  of  the  river ;  and  how  she  had 
beckoned  them  with  friendly  smiles  to  go  hither  and  thither 
with  their  nets;  and  how  they  always  drew  their  nets  up 
abundantly  filled  with  fishes,  when  they  followed  her  direc- 
tions. "  But  if  you  venture  to  approach  her,"  said  they, — 
"and  who  would  not  desire  to  do  so?  she  is  so  beautiful, — 
she  gets  angry,  and  vanishes  like  a  mist.  Whether  she 
rises  up  into  the  air,  or  plunges  down  into  the  deep,  no- 
body can  tell ;  and  nobody  knows  who  and  what  she  is." 

Shaking  his  head,  the  old  huntsman  went  away,  in  the 
darkling  evening,  to  the  other  side,  towards  Bacharach. 
Close  to  this  town  stood  Stahleek,  a  castle  where  the  pfalzr 
graf  resided.  Many  tales  had  been  told  at  the  castle  of 
the  marvellous  lady,  who  sometimes,  in  the  twilight,  or 
when  the  moon  shone,  would  appear  on  the  rock;  but 
none  of  the  pfalzgraf's  household  had  ever  seen  her;  and 
he  often  warned  them  not  to  let  themselves  be  led  away  by 
vain  curiosity,  remarking  that  he  whom  God  preserved 
from  all  intercourse  with  such  phantoms  of  hell,  should 
rejoice  in  his  mercy,  and  entertain  no  wish  that  it  were 
otherwise. 

But  the  son  of  the  pfalzgraf,  a  beautiful  youth,  whom, 
it  seemed  as  if  the  spring  had  chosen  for  its  harbinger, 
and  who  changed  all  into  spring  wherever  he  looked  and 
smiled,  had  often  turned  his  eyes  wistfully  towards  the 
place  from  which  came  the  wonderful  tales  of  Loreley. 
Yet  he  dared  not  go  thither :  for  his  father  and  mother  had 
become  aware  of  his  feelings,  having  been  told  by  his 
10* 


114  LORELET. 

playfellows  what  a  picture  he  had  drawn  of  the  fairy,  and 
how  all  his  thoughts  and  wishes  were  directed  towards 
her.  Whatever  came  to  his  knowledge  regarding  her,  was 
never  forgotten  again,  but  stood  forever  in  transparent 
beauty  before  his  imagination,  which  would  sometimes 
picture  her  seated  high  upon  the  rock,  surrounded  by 
party-colored  snakes,  and  green  lizards,  which  crept  about 
among  the  glittering  stones;  and  ants,  which  came  in  long 
troops,  as  if  they  were  carrying  gifts  to  her ;  while  the  full 
moon  showered  down  red  gold  into  her  lap.  Sometimes, 
when  all  around  the  banks  and  the  river  was  veiled  in 
twilight,  he  thought  he  saw  Loreley  standing  there  in  the 
rosy  solitude,  singing  her  monotonous  song,  while  beneath 
her  the  Rhine  flowed  on  with  lonely  murmurings,  and  the 
timid  birds,  awaking  from  time  to  time,  flew  up  into  the 
air,  and  the  late  evening  glow  still  hovered  above  the  tops 
of  the  mountains. 

The  same  evening  on  which  the  huntsman  came  to 
Stahleek,  Hagbert — for  such  was  the  name  of  the  son  of 
the  pfalzgraf — was  seated,  with  his  sister,  Wana,  on  the  de- 
clivity of  the  neighboring  Kiihlberg,  opposite  the  Voights- 
berg,  upon  whose  sunny  sides  the  costly  vine  prospers. 
They  saw  the  boats  passing  over  the  water,  and  many 
beautiful  spots  reflected  on  the  river  like  the  looks  of  love 
and  of  longing.  Many  a  tale  they  had  told  to  one  another ; 
and  now  the  brother  and  sister  sat  holding  each  other's 
hand  in  silence.  Wana  was  Hagbert's  confidant,  and  she 
knew  wherefore  he  sighed,  and  breathed  so  ardently  to- 
wards the  distant  vapor,  under  whose  golden  and  blue 
veil  the  mountains  seemed  to  heave  like  a  bosom,  in  which 
many  a  sweet  and  many  a  painful  secret  is  concealed.  All 
around  was  silent :  the  trees  moved  as  if  they  were  lulling 
one  another  to  sleep ;  the  odorous  pinks  and  violets  near 
the  rock  shut  their  eyes;  the  little  brooks  alone  continued 
•to  beat  and  murmur  like  the  veins  of  life  in  a  dream:  be- 
hind the  darkling  trees  and- bushes,  the  tops  of  the  gilded 


LORELEY.  115 

forest  shot  up,  and  a  shower  of  red  sparkles  seemed  to  fall 
upon  the  grass,  and  to  inflame  it.  Suddenly  the  moon  rose 
behind  the  mountains,  and  all  at  once  every  thing  seemed 
to  burn  in  clear  and  enchanted  light.  "  There  is  Loreley," 
said  Hagbert.  "  She  smiles  to  us.  Do  you  hear  how  she 
calls  ?  "  It  was  only  a  bird  screaming  through  the  red 
moonlight  night.  But  Wana  drew  her  brother  up  from 
his  seat,  and  said,  trembling,  "  It  is  time,  my  brother,  that 
you  bring  me  home  to  my  mother.  Let  us  not  again  be 
seated  here  so  late  and  alone  on  the  declivity;  for  the 
charm  draws  you  down,  down,  and  I  tremble  for  you  and 
for  myself." 

At  the  castle  they  were  talking  of  what  had  lately  been 
said  of  the  beautiful  Loreley,  when  Wana,  in  the  hand 
of  her  brother,  and  a  little  afraid  of  the  reproof  of  her 
mother,  entered  the  hall,  where  her  parents  were  seated  to- 
gether, as  was  their  custom  at  night  time.  The  youth 
listened  in  silence  to  every  word  which  was  spoken.  "If 
she  is  a  witch,  this  wild  Loreley,"  exclaimed  Ruthard,  a 
knight  of  the  palatine,  "  she  must  be  thrown  into  the  fire, 
were  she  even  as  beautiful  as  the  evening  star  yonder." 
Then  Hagbert  sighed,  and,  leaning  on  his  father's  chair, 
bent  over  his  neck,  and  said,  "  Let  me  catch  her,  father. 
I  do  not  fear.  If  she  is  a  witch,  I  will  bring  her  to  you ; 
but  if  there  can  be  found  no  guilt  in  her,  and  if  she  does 
not  willingly  do  harm  to  any  one,  you  will  give  her  to  me, 
and  she  shall  be  my  own  love."  Hereat  all  who  were 
present  laughed  aloud ;  but  the  pfalzgraf  answered,  "  Peo- 
ple say  Loreley  is  a  cunning  fisher :  she  spreads  out  a  glit- 
tering, wily  net ;  but  as  for  you,  my  son,  you  are  a  young 
inexperienced  little  fish,  and  had  better  keep  at  a  distance 
from  her.  Curiosity  and  the  forbidden  fruit  often  excite 
youth  to  wish  for  a  thing  which  they  throw  away  as  soon 
as  it  is  in  their  possession.  If  even  the  ghostly  lady 
should  be  no  monster,  she  is  most  probably  a  mermaid ; 
and  a  man  shall  hold  no  communion  with  such  creatures. 


I  16  LORELEY. 

God  has  placed  them  in  another  house  of  nature,  and 
their  enmity  visibly  appears  as  soon  as  man  approaches 
that  which  nature  has  designed  should  remain  at  a  dis- 
tance from  him."  "  There  are  plenty  of  tales  told,"  re- 
plied Ruthard,  "  from  which  it  seems  that  such  intercourse 
has  brought  harm  and  perdition  over  both ;  and  it  seems 
to  me  no  guilt  to  kill  such  a  creature,  who  tries  to  insnare 
men  with  siren  love."  "  One  may  quietly  pass  by,"  said 
the  countess;  "for  the  water-nymph  is  said  to  be  a  crea- 
ture without  reason ;  but  man  ought  not  to  follow  blind 
instinct,  if  he  does  not  wish  to  do  so."  "  I  shall  not  lend 
you  my  cross-bow,  Ruthard,"  exclaimed  Hagbert,  "  if 
your  speeches  are  meant  for  the  poor  fair  Loreley."  "  We 
have  talked  enough,"  interrupted  the  palatine,  desir- 
ing the  priest  to  say  the  evening  prayers.  But  Hagbert 
slept  uneasily  the  whole  night.  It  seemed  certain  to  him, 
that  they  would  attack  Loreley ;  and  he  fancied  he  saw  the 
arrow  in  her  breast,  and  her  blood  flowing  like  a  coral 
string  down  the  dark  rock  into  the  deep  Rhine. 

One  of  the  following  days,  several  strangers  came  to 
visit  the  castle ;  and  Hagbert  and  his  hunting  com- 
panions conducted  the  merry  sportsmen  through  ravines 
covered  with  vines  into  the  green  foliage  of  the  forest  of 
beeches ;  but  the  pfalzgraf  had  secretly  ordered  Ruthard 
to  pay  attention  to  Hagbert,  lest  his  curiosity  should  lead 
him  after  more  witching  game.  Nevertheless,  it  so  hap- 
pened that  Hagbert  got  out  of  sight  of  his  companion,  and 
suddenly  disappeared.  He  yet  heard  the  bugle-horns  call- 
ing him  back ;  but  the  sounds  came  from  a  great  distance, 
and  Hagbert's  heart  beat  violently,  like  the  young  eagle's, 
when  he  no  longer  hears  the  wings  of  the  old  one  around 
him.  Without  thinking  of  what  he  intended  to  do,  he 
hastened  on  as  quickly  as  he  could.  Sometimes  it  seemed 
to  him  as  if  he  truly  intended  to  catch  the  mermaid,  and 
thus  accomplish  the  will  of  his  father ;  and  sometimes 
he  fancied  himself  called  upon  to  protect  her,  as  if  he  had 


"There  stood  the  maiden,  gleiming  all  silvor  white  in  the  light  of  the  moon." 

Page  117. 


LORELEY.  117 

long  ago  seen  her  and  loved  her.  He  now  stepped  down  a 
ravine.  It  was  at  the  bending  of  the  river,  where  it  turns 
into  the  silent  rocky  solitude ;  the  turrets  of  Oberwesel 
and  the  watch-towers  of  Schonberg  glittered  behind  him ; 
the  last  light  of  day,  like  a  dying  flame,  played  around 
their  tops ;  whilst  over  the  mountains  the  first  rosy  beams 
of  moonlight  appeared  like  as  on  that  evening  when  Hag- 
bert  and  Wana  looked  down  from  the  Kuhlberg. 

But  from  beyond,  a  wonderful  sound  was  heard,  inces- 
santly repeated,  which  those  who  deeply  listened  to  did 
not  perceive  was  always  the  same  note,  and  sweet  tunes 
seemed  to  float  in  the  air  around  him,  like  the  distant  and 
enchanting  call  of  love.  Hagbert  looked  around ;  and, 
when  he  saw  nothing,  he  thought  how  that  bird  could  be 
called  which  sings  sweeter  than  a  nightingale.  Some 
young  people  from  Oberwesel  were  now  close  by  him :  the 
water  sparkled  beneath  their  oars  around  the  boat,  and 
Hagbert  heard  them  say,  "  That  is  Loreley."  He  then 
cried  to  them,  "I  am  the  son  of  the  pfalzgraf,  and 
would  like  to  be  rowed  a  little  in  the  light  of  the  moon. 
Will  you  ferry  me  over  ?  "  With  these  words,  he  sprung 
into  the  boat  with  his  bow  and  his  arrow,  his  locks  stream- 
ing loosely  in  the  wind  around  his  temples  and  his  neck. 
"  Now,  row  me  over  to  the  rock,  where  Loreley  sings," 
exclaimed  he ;  "  pull  off;  show  me  the  fair  Loreley." 

The  young  men  rowed  on,  and  soon  showed  him  the 
rock  whence  the  sweet  voice  resounded.  There  stood  the 
maiden,  gleaming  all  silver  white  in  the  light  of  the 
moon,  and  twining  in  her  golden  hair  a  wreath  of  water- 
flowers  and  reeds,  which  she  had  gathered  in  the  Rhine, 
while,  ever  as  her  hands  moved,  she  kept  singing,  "Lor- 
eley— Loreley — Loreley  !  " 

"  Row  me  thither, row  me  thither! "  exclaimed  Hagbert; 
but  the  helmsman  kept  at  a  distance,  and  said,  "It  would 
be  the  death  of  you."  Then  Hagbert  replied,  "  Well,  be 
thou  my  death,  or  I  catch  thee  alive,  my  lovely  maiden  ; 
and  never  shall  I  part  with  thee  again,  nor  thou  with  me  ! 


I 18  LORELEY. 

What!  do  you  delay?  "  called  he  again  to  the  young  man. 
"  Do  you  not  know  my  father  has  sent  me  to  catch  the  mer- 
maid ?  Therefore  I  came  with  my  bow  and  arrows."  The 
rowers  bent  to  their  oars,  and  the  old  steep  rock  soon  threw 
its  shadow  over  the  boat;  but  again  the  boatmen  paused, 
and  warned  the  rash  youth  of  his  danger. 

The  fair  Loreley  had  opened  .  her  bright  eyes  :  her 
long,  luxuriant  ringlets  fell  undulating  down  her  shoulders, 
as  if  longing  to  leap  with  her  into  the  waters  to  entangle 
the  youth :  she  remained  standing  at  the  edge,  her  song 
was  silenced,  and  she  looked  as  if  partially  revealed  from 
a  dim  mist.  The  young  men  now  called  on  Hagbert  to 
place  his  arrow  on  the  string,  as  the  witch  was  just  stand- 
ing fair  for  a  mark ;  but  he  took  off  his  weapons,  and 
threw  them  into  the  Rhine,  calling  out,  "  Be  not  afraid, 
lovely  maid ;  no  harm  shall  be  done  to  you ;  but  mine  you 
must  be,  and  I  am  yours  forever!"  At  these  words,  those 
who  held  the  oars  shuddered,  and  began  to  be  afraid  lest 
they  also  should  lose  their  senses,  like  the  son  of  the  pfalz- 
graf,  and  so  all  of  them  find  their  death  on  the  spot. 
Therefore  they  held  off  the  rock  as  much  as  they  could, 
and  bent  their  oars  stoutly  against  the  waters.  But  Hag- 
bert, endeavoring  to  spring  over  to  the  edge  of  the  rock, 
missed  his  step,  and  sunk  down  into  the  waters,  and  after 
him,  with  a  sweet  and  mournful  scream,  plunged  the  siren 
into  the  flood,  as  if  a  silvery  beam  from  the  rock  had  sud- 
denly glittered  over  the  stream.  But  the  young  men  fled 
away,  and  only  thought  of  saving  their  own  lives.  "  What 
shall  we  do?"  they  exclaimed;  "shall  we  tell  the  palatine 
that  his  son  found  his  death  in  the  Rhine?  And  if  we 
conceal  it,  a  still  worse  suspicion  falls  upon  us;  for  it  can- 
not remain  secret :  so  let  us  just  say  that  he  hired  and 
forced  us  to  bring  him  hither,  pretending  that  his  father 
had  sent  him  to  kill  the  mermaid ;  and  that  she  bewitched 
him  when  he  was  taking  up  his  weapon, — which  is  all 
the  truth." 

When  Hagbert  opened  his  eyes,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if 


LORELEY.  119 

he  had  awoke  in  the  midst  of  winter,  and  as  if  blue  and 
green  pieces  of  ice  stood  like  giants  around  him  ;  but  a 
gentle  spring  breeze  blew  through  the  crevice  of  the  rock, 
and  sweetly  fanned  his  cold  cheeks.  What  the  boy 
thpught  was  cold  ice,  was  quartz  and  transparent  crystal ; 
and  the  breeze  was  Loreley's  breath,  which  played  around 
him  like  the  sighing  wave.  Forests  of  rushes  and  other 
aquatic  plants  rustled  around  the  cave ;  and  through  the 
crystal  walls  resounded,  incessantly,  sweet  sounds,  as  if 
the  waves  were  sighing  their  love  to  one  another. 

In  this  deep  world  Hagbert  found  himself  alone  with 
the  beautiful  mermaid;  but  he  could  not  feel  comforted 
here  in  the  midst  of  those  frightful  wonders ;  and  soon  he 
longed,  almost  more  impatiently  than  he  had  formerly  done, 
to  throw  himself  into  the  water,  to  see  again  the  light  of 
the  day,  as  if  it  was  only  there  that  he  could  rejoice  in  the 
sight  of  the  beautiful  fairy,  and  exchange  love  for  love. 
He  said  to  her,  when  she  threw  around  him  her  silver- 
white  arms,  and  when  her  ringlets  floated  around  him  like 
the  waves  of  the  stream,  "  Only  where  the  sun  of  heaven 
shines  upon  us  can  I  rejoice  in  your  sight! "  So  she  took 
his  hand,  and  led  him  along  a  narrow  rocky  path.  It  grew 
darker  and  darker  around  him,  and  waving  flowers  seemed 
to  shoot  down  from  an  immeasurable  height  into  the  lonely 
depth.  "  The  hills  and  vales  are  still  slumbering,"  said 
Loreley,  "  but  the  sky  does  not  shut  his  eyes  for  so  long  a 
time  :  do  you  see  how  they  glance  down  upon  us?  "  And 
again  the  wild  floods  rushed  around  Hagbert.  "  Let  not 
your  foot  glide,"  said  Loreley;  "  come,  sit  down  here, 
close  by  my  side,  till  the  sun  rises." 

A  white  cliff  glittered  in  pale  light  before  Hagbert;  but 
it  seemed  to  be  assailed  by  agitated  waters,  which  heaved 
to  and  fro  among  huge  mountain-like  forms,  and  threat- 
ened also  the  spot  where  he  stood  in  the  silent  night. 
"Where  are  we?"  inquired  Hagbert,  and  felt,  not  with- 
out a  shudder,  Loreley's  arms  surrounding  him.  "  We 


120  LORELEY. 

are  in  the  midst  of  the  Rhine,"  said  the  maid.  "  These 
are  the  ancient  children  of  the  giants,  the  mountains: 
we  are  seated  on  the  toe  of  one  of  them  :  and  it  is  so 
long  that  he  stretches  it  out  like  an  angle  for  the  ships 
which  so  merrily  go  up  and  down  the  Rhine.  He  draws 
them  down  at  the  stone  yonder ;  and  yonder  where  I  look 
to,  up  the  river,  the  wrecks  appear  again ;  but  no  living 
being  ever  re-appears  there :  they  have  all  been  swallowed 
— swallowed." 

At  the  opposite  side  a  small  light  now  appeared :  it  was 
a  lamp  before  an  altar  in  the  church  of  St.  Clement,  on 
the  opposite  shore.  The  feeble  glimmer  glided  slowly 
through  the  country,  throwing  here  and  there  a  beam ;  and 
Hagbert  thought  he  could  discern  the  Mauserthurm  quite 
near ;  and  before  and  behind  him,  upon  the  heights,  he  saw 
some  well-known  castles.  "  Do  you  know,"  said  Loreley, 
as  if  she  had  perceived  his  distrusting  fears,  "  I  have  been 
leading  you  up  the  stream  :  the  waters  were  carrying  you 
down :  there  my  kinsmen  would  never  have  let  you  out 
again  from  the  crystal  castle ;  but  you  shall  remain  mine ; 
for  you  I  left  the  beautiful  castle :  all  my  longing  was  for 
you."  "  Loreley,"  exclaimed  Hagbert, — and,  as  he  glanc- 
ed on  her  countenance,  her  flowing  ringlets  in  the  night 
breeze  looked  again  so  beautiful,  with  the  light  from  be- 
yond the  river  falling  upon  them, — "  they  say  you  rejoice 
there  above,  upon  yon  rock,  when  your  wild  river  draws  a 
man  down." 

Loreley  sighed,  and  said,  "  It  may  be  so,  dear  youth : 
I  did  not  know  better ;  I  thought  it  must  give  pleasure  to 
all  to  sport  with  us,  and  to  get  fresh  and  cool  in  our  re- 
sounding transparent  world."  "  They  also  say,"  replied 
Hagbert,  "  that  you  allure  the  children  of  men  with  your 
sweet  song."  "  I  do  not  care  at  all  for  the  children  of 
men,"  said  Loreley,  peevishly  ;  "for  my  pleasure  I  sang  ; 
for  my  pleasure  T  gazed.  I  called  none,  and  looked  for 
none.  If  any  one  thought  that  I  called  for  him,  it  some- 


I.ORELEY.  121 

times  amused  me,  and  I  had  my  sport  with  them  without 
thinking  of  it.  But  now,  alas!  all  is  changed:  no  sport 
will  any  more  rejoice  me.  It  is  you  I  have  chosen  ;  it  is 
you  whom  I  will  draw  down  into  the  deep — you,  whom  I 
will  follow  through  the  world ;  for  I  am  yours,  and  you  are 
mine.  When  you  approached  with  bow  and  arrow,  I  felt 
as  if  I  wished  to  be  a  roe,  and  to  have  your  arrow  in  my 
heart,  and  to  fly  before  you  till  I  had  drawn  you  to  the 
highest  top  of  the  rock,  where  you  should  have  been 
alone  with  me." 

From  near  and  far  now  flamed  up  the  first  morning 
light  over  the  white  rocks:  their  tops  glittered  in  the  first 
dawning  of  the  morning,  whilst  below  them  the  two  lovers 
were  still  seated.  Hagbert  held  the  beautiful  maid  in  his 
arms  :  she  leaned  her  head  upon  his  breast;  but,  when  the 
cocks  began  to  crow  at  the  shore,  she  started  up,  and  said, 
"I  must  go.  There,  where  you  have  found  me,  you  will 
find  me  again  at  evening-time.  Do  not  forget."  She  then 
threw  a  stone  into  the  water,  which  became  troubled,  boil- 
ed, and  gushed  up,  and  a  small  boat  appeared  working  its 
way  to  the  surface.  "Leap  into  it,"  exclaimed  Loreley: 
"one  of  the  boards  was  broken  in  sinking:  take  it  up,  and 
make  use  of  it  for  an  oar,  and  row  to  the  shore.  Fare- 
well, Hagbert!"  With  these  words  she  plunged  down: 
and  Hagbert,  now  in  the  boat,  saw  her  no  longer.  But 
below  him  there  sounded  a  murmuring  voice — "  Loreley, 
Loreley  !  "  till  it  seemed  as  if  tears  at  last  stifled  the  long- 
ing sound. 

The  frail  boat  carried  Hagbert  with  as  much  security 
over  the  dangerous  spot  as  if  a  careless,  playful  child  had 
been  intrusted  to  its  care ;  and  he  reached  the  shore  to 
the  right,  where  castle  Ehrenfels  glittered  in  the  morning 
glow  over  the  merry  vines.  In  the  morning  beam,  Hag- 
bert awoke  gradually  from  the  dreams  of  the  night :  he 
was  astonished,  and  knew  not  how  he  felt;  doubt  and 
sweet  mystery,  desire  and  horror,  struggled  in  him ;  Lor- 
11 


LORELEY. 

eley's  countenance  appeared  before  him,  such  as  it  had 
smiled  upon  him  in  the  light  of  the  lamp  from  the  church; 
and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  should  have  placed  her  in 
the  full  glare  of  that  light,  and  all  fear  would  have  fled : 
then  he  thought  again  how  the  crowing  of  the  cock  had 
frightened  her  away ;  and  he  felt  as  if  a  ghost  had  been 
seated  near  him  in  the  horrors  of  the  night,  and  wondered 
that  his  adventure  had  not  cost  him  his  life. 

He  went  to  the  nearest  cottage  of  a  vine-dresser,  and 
begged  for  a  warm  drink.  His  clothes  were  damp,  and 
he  left  them  in  the  cottage,  and  put  on  the  jacket  of  one 
of  the  boys.  He  knew  not  whether,  if  he  should  return  to 
Stahleek,  he  might  hope,  as  his  life  had  been  miraculous- 
ly preserved,  that  the  anger  of  his  father  would  be  soften- 
ed ;  and  then  he  hoped  to  obtain  the  interest  of  his  mother 
and  sister  for  the  fair  Loreley,  and  that  they  might  inter- 
cede for  her  with  his  father.  Again,  midst  his  secret  shud- 
dering, the  wish  awoke  in  him  to  fly  to  the  maid  of  the 
rock,  and  to  live  for  her  alone  ;  and  again  fear  overcame 
his  longings.  Thus  he  spent  a  part  of  the  morning  mus- 
ing upon  the  shore,  till  at  last  he  bethought  himself  it 
would  be  best  to  go  straight  to  Stahleek ;  otherwise  the 
maid  might  come  into  danger  before  he  could  prevent  it. 
He  felt  more  and  more  anxious,  the  nearer  he  approached 
the  castle  of  his  father.  He  mounted  the  steps  in  the 
rock,  which  led  a  nearer  way  to  a  small  gate;  but,  in  seiz- 
ing the  knocker,  he  perceived  he  had  lost  a  little  ring 
which  he  always  wore  on  his  left  hand;  and  he  thought 
the  mermaid  might  have  taken  it  secretly  from  his  finger, 
to  bind  him  forever  to  her. 

Night  came  on.  The  pfalzgraf,  informed  of  the  death 
of  his  son,  sent  Ruthard  with  a  troop  of  soldiers  to  catch 
Loreley,  dead  or  alive.  Ruthard  had  begged  hard  to  be 
intrusted  with  this  commission.  Loreley  stood  on  the 
top  of  the  rock,  when  the  fierce-looking  men  came  down 
the  dark  flood.  She  gazed  up  the  river,  wondering  that 


LORELEY.  123 

Hagbert  did  not  come,  and  called  aloud,  as  she  was  wont, 
"  Loreley,  Loretey  !  "  Then  Ruthard  cried  mockingly 
to  her,  "  We  bring  to  thee  the  greetings  of  your  love  Hag- 
bert :  he  sends  by  us  a  kiss  to  his  bride,  with  which  he 
weds  thee :  come  down  to  us  to  get  it,  or  tell  us  how  to 
come  up  to  thee  without  flying.  O,  thou  fair  and  wild 
Loreley,  here  is  new  booty  for  thee.  Dost  thou  not  choose 
to  catch  it  as  thou  hast  caught  Hagbert  1 " 

Loreley  lifted  her  snow-white  hand :  she  pointed  with 
her  finger  here  and  there,  and  showed  them  how  they 
might  climb  up  the  rock;  for  she  thought  that  they  came 
in  peace,  and  that  they  surely  brought  to  her  Hagbert's 
greetings.  Many  of  them  warned  the  rash  Ruthard,  but 
he  laughed  at  their  fears;  and  two  of  his  savage  menials 
climbed  up  the  rock  with  him.  "Bind  her!"  called  he 
out,  when  they  had  gained  the  rock.  "  What  do  you  in- 
tend? "  exclaimed  Loreley.  "Thou  must  die  :  down  with 
thee  to  the  Rhine,  thou  witch  !  "  said  Ruthard.  "  Thou 
must  die,  siren  that  thou  art,  who  hast  killed  the  beautiful 
Hagbert." 

"  Hagbert ! "  exclaimed  Loreley  in  a  melting  voice. 
"  Come  hither,  Hagbert.  I  am  no  witch.  I  am  Hagbert's 
love  ;  his  true  love."  "  Phantom ! "  cried  Ruthard,  "  Hag- 
bert lies  in  the  river."  "  He  is  at  Stahleek,"  said  Loreley, 
wringing  her  snow-white  hands,  and  embracing  Ruthard's 
knee.  "  O,  let  me  not  die!  Hagbert,  Hagbert,  come 
hither!" 

The  hearts  of  all  those  who  had  remained  below  were 
moved  by  her  beauty  and  her  accents,  so  that  one  cried 
to  the  savage  knight,  "  Have  patience,  Ruthard;  I  will 
ride  to  Stahleek,  and  see  whether  the  mermaid  has  spoken 
the  truth  :  if  the  son  of  the  pfalzgraf  is  at  the  castle — if 
she  has  saved  his  life — she  shall  be  free."  But  Ruthard 
laughed  in  mockery,  and  said,  "  Will  you  not  also  bring  a 
priest  that  he  may  convert  the  witch?  Although  Hagbert 
were  yet  living,  Loreley  must  die  for  having  seduced  him." 


124  LORELEY. 

But  Loreley  looked  with  new  courage  upon  the  man  as  he 
flew  away  in  full  speed  upon  his  foaming  horse,  and  said, 
"  Do  you  wish  to  throw  me  into  the  Rhine  ?  That  I  can 
do  better  myself.  Here,  before  your  eyes,  I  will  leap  into 
it."  But  Ruthard  got  her  fettered,  and  a  heavy  stone  was 
brought,  whilst  the  cruel  knight  shook  his  glittering  sword 
above  her  swan-white  neck. 

A  swift  boat  now  came  through  the  waves  bearing  to 
the  edge  of  the  rock  the  friendly  soldier  who  had  ridden 
to  Stahleek.  "  Loreley,"  called  he  up  to  her,  "  give  back 
the  little  ring  you  have  taken  from  the  palatine's  son,  and 
your  life  shall  be  saved : — thus  the  palatine  spoke."  "  I 
have  no  ring  of  his,"  said  Loreley,  lamenting ;  "  he  had 
none  on  his  hand  to  give  me.  Hagbert,  alas !  Hagbert, 
why  dost  thou  not  come?  Drag  me  to  him  in  chains, 
and  he  will  loose  them." 

"  Do  you  see  ?  she  will  not  yield  up  the  ring,"  replied 
Ruthard,  spitefully.  Then  Loreley  wept,  like  the  implor- 
ing deer,  when  the  harsh,  savage  huntsman  stands  before 
it;  and  many  of  those  who  stood  below  wept  with  Tier,  for 
.Ruthard  had  no  mercy;  he  granted  her  no  respite;  he  hung 
t'ie  heavy  stone  at  her  neck,  and  the  murderers  approach- 
es; but  Loreley  looked  on  them,  and  said,  "  My  love  has 
betrayed  me :  no  one  shall  ever  see  me  more."  Once 
more  she  glanced  up  the  river,  and  leaned  over,  as  if  she 
wished  to  see  castle  Stahleek :  she  then  stepped  to  the 
edge  of  the  rock,  and  leaped  down. 

As  if  changed  into  stone,  Ruthard  and  his  two  blood- 
thirsty companions  gazed  after  her.'  They  could  not  find 
the  way  down  again ;  and  thus  they  died  a  miserable 
death.  But  Hagbert  was  inconsolable  when  he  heard  the 
news  of  Loreley. 

The  following  day,  a  man  from  Oberwesel  brought  a  net 
of  large,  fine  fish  to  the  castle;  and  when  they  were  about 
to  prepare  them  in  the  kitchen,  they  found  under  the  tongue 
of  one  of  them  the  ring  which  the  youth  had  lost,  and 


DREAM-CHILDREN.  125 

which,  doubtless,  had  fallen  from  his  finger  when  the  flood 
drew  him  down. 

Hagbert  often  rowed  up  and  down  the  Rhine ;  but  Lor- 
eley's  lovely  form,  and  her  fair  countenance,  he  never  saw 
again.  Yet  her  voice  was  often  heard  :  she  sang  no  longer, 
but  she  answered  when  called  to ;  and  then  it  seemed  as 
if  she  wept,  and  sighed  deeply,  and  would  have  said,  had 
she  spoken,  "  Why  do  you  throw  away  your  words  upon 
me,  and  invite  me  to  play  as  I  formerly  did  ?  It  is  no 
longer  Hagbert's  voice.  I  have  lost  him,  lost." 

When  Hagbert  called  to  her,  she  answered  his  words 
like  an  echo ;  but  he  could  not  bear  the  sound.  Once  he 
pressed  his  sister  Wana  to  his  breast,  who  mournfully 
stood  beside  him  ;  threw  the  ring  into  the  Rhine  ;  and  lis- 
tened through  the  sound  of  the  oars  towards  the  rock ;  but 
his  sister  kept  him  back,  when  he  longed  to  fling  himself 
down  into  the  wild  river. 

From  the  day  on  which  he  threw  the  rich  ring  into  the 
Rhine,  near  the  rock  which  still  bears  the  name  of  the 
Mermaid,  Hagbert  declined  in  health,  as  if  something  was 
gnawing  at  his  heart;  and  like  the  sound  of  the  bugle- 
horn  at  the  Loreley,  his  young  life  died  away  in  the  long- 
ings of  love. 


DREAM-CHILDREN;   A   REVERIE. 

CHILDREN  love  to  listen  to  stories  about  their  elders, 
when  they  were  children;  to  stretch  their  imagination  to 
the  conception  of  a  traditionary  great-uncle,  or  grandame, 
whom  they  never  saw.  It  was  in  this  spirit  that  my  little 
ones  crept  about  me,  the  other  evening,  to  hear  about  their 
great-grandmother  Field,  who  lived  in  a  great  house  in 
11  * 


126  DREAM-CHILDREN. 

Norfolk  (a  hundred  times  bigger  than  that  in  which  they 
and  papa  lived),  which  had  been  the  scene — so,  at  least, 
it  was  generally  believed  in  that  part  of  the  country — of 
the  tragic  incidents  which  they  had  lately  become  familiar 
with,  from  the  ballad  of  the  Children  in  the  Wood.  Cer- 
tain it  is,  that  the  whole  story  of  the  children  and  their 
cruel  uncle  was  to  be  seen  fairly  carved  out  in  the  wood 
upon  the  chimney-piece  of  the  great  hall;  the  whole  story 
down  to  the  robin  red-breasts — till  a  foolish  rich  person 
pulled  it  down  to  set  up  a  marble  one  of  modern  inven- 
tion in  its  stead,  with  no  story  upon  it.  Here  Alice  put  out 
one  of  her  dear  mother's  looks,  too  tender  to  be  called 
upbraiding.  Then  I  went  on  to  say,  how  religious  and 
how  good  their  great-grandmother  Field  was,  how  beloved 
and  respected  by  every  body,  though  she  was  not,  indeed, 
the  mistress  of  this  great  house,  but  had  only  the  charge 
of  it  (and  yet,  in  some  respects,  she  might  be  said  to  be 
the  mistress  of  it  too)  committed  to  her  by  the  owner,  who 
preferred  living  in  a  newer  and  more  fashionable  mansion, 
which  he  had  purchased  somewhere  in  the  adjoining  coun- 
ty;— but  still  she  lived  in  it,  in  a  manner  as  if  it  had  been 
her  own,  and  kept  up  the  dignity  of  the  great  house,  in  a 
sort,  while  she  lived,  which  afterwards  came  to  decay,  and 
was  nearly  pulled  down,  and  all  its  old  ornaments  stripped 
and  carried  away  to  the  owner's  other  house,  where  they 
were  set  up,  and  looked  as  awkward  as  if  some  one  were  to 
carry  away  the  old  tombs  they  had  seen  lately  at  the 
abbey,  and  stick  them  up  in  Lady  C.'s  tawdry  gilt  draw- 
ing-room. Here  John  smiled,  as  much  as  to  say,  "That 
would  be  foolish  indeed."  And  then  I  told  how,  when 
she  came  to  die,  her  funeral  was  attended  by  a  concourse 
of  all  the  poor,  and  some  of  the  gentry,  too,  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, for  many  miles  round,  to  show  their  respect  for 
her  memory,  because  she  had  been  such  a  good  and  reli- 
gious woman  ;  so  good,  indeed,  that  she  knew  all  the  Psal- 
ter by  heart .;  ay,  and  a  great  part  of  the  Testament  be- 


DREAM-CHILDREN.  127 

sides.  Here  little  Alice  spread  her  hands.  Then  I  told 
what  a  tall,  upright,  graceful  person  their  great-grand- 
mother Field  once  was ;  and  how,  in  her  youth,  she  was 
esteemed  the  best  dancer — here  Alice's  little  right  foot 
played  an  involuntary  movement,  till,  upon  my  looking 
grave,  it  desisted — the  best  dancer,  I  was  saying,  in  the 
county,  till  a  cruel  disease,  called  a  cancer,  came,  and 
bowed  her  down  with  pain ;  but  it  could  never  bend  her 
good  spirits,  or  make  them  stoop ;  but  they  were  still  up- 
right, because  she  was  so  good  and  religious.  Then  I  told 
how  she  was  used  to  sleep  by  herself  in  a  lone  chamber  of 
the  great  lone  house  ;•  and  how  she  believed  that  an  appari- 
tion of  two  infants  was  to  be  seen  at  midnight,  gliding  up 
and  down  the  great  staircase  near  where  she  slept ;  but  she 
said,  "  those  innocents  would  do  her  no  harm  ;  "  and  how 
frightened  I  used  to  be,  though  in  those  days  I  had  my  maid 
to  sleep  with  me,  because  I  was  never  half  so  good  or  reli- 
gious as  she — and  yet  I  never  saw  the  infants.  Here  John 
expanded  all  his  eye-brows,  and  tried  to  look  courageous. 
Then  I  told  how  good  she  was  to  all  her  grandchildren, 
having  us  to  the  great  house  in  the  holidays,  where  I,  in 
particular,  used  to  spend  many  hours  by  myself,  in  gazing 
upon  the  old  busts  of  the  twelve  Caesars,  that  had  been 
emperors  of  Rome,  till  the  old  marble  heads  would  seem 
to  live  again,  or  I  to  be  turned  into  marble  with  them ;  how 
I  never  could  be  tired  with  roaming  about  that  huge  man- 
sion, with  its  vast  empty  rooms,  with  their  worn-out  hang- 
ings, fluttering  tapestry,  and  carved  oaken  panels,  with 
the  gilding  almost  rubbed  out ;  sometimes  in  the  spacious 
old-fashioned  gardens,  which  I  had  almost  to  myself,  un- 
less when,  now  and  then,  a  solitary  gardening  man  would 
cross  me ;  and  how  the  nectarines  and  peaches  hung  upon 
the  walls,  without  my  ever  offering  to  pluck  them,  because 
they  were  forbidden  fruit,  unless  now  and  then — and  be- 
cause I  had  more  pleasure  in  strolling  about  among  the 
old  melancholy-looking  yew-trees,  or  the  firs,  and  picking 


128  DKEAM-CHILDREN. 

up  the  red  berries,  and  the  fir-apples,  which  were  good  for 
nothing  but  to  look  at — or  in  lying  about  upon  the  fresh 
grass,  with  all  the  fine  garden  smells  around  me — or  bask- 
ing in  the  orangery,  till  I  could  almost  fancy  myself  ripening 
too,  along  with  the  oranges  and  the  limes,  in  that  grateful 
warmth — or  in  watching  the  dace,  that  darted  to  and  fro 
in  the  fish-pond,  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  with  here 
and  there  a  great  sulky  pike,  hanging  midway  down  the 
water  in  silent  state,  as  if  it  mocked  at  their  impertinent 
friskings; — I  had  more  pleasure  in  these  busy-idle  diver- 
sions than  in  all  the  sweet  flavors  of  peaches,  nectarines, 
oranges,  and  such  like  common  baits  of  children.  Here 
John  slily  deposited  back  upon  the  plate  a  bunch  of 
grapes,  which,  not  unobserved  by  Alice,  he  had  meditated 
dividing  with  her ;  and  both  seemed  willing  to  relinquish 
them  for  the  present  as  irrelevant.  Then,  in  somewhat  a 
more  heightened  tone,  I  told  how,  though  their  great- 
grandmother  Field  loved  all  her  grandchildren,  yet,  in 
an  especial  manner,  she  might  be  said  to  love  their  uncle, 

John  L ,  because  he  was  so  handsome  and  spirited  a 

youth,  and  a  king  to  the  rest  of  us ;  and,  instead  of  mo- 
ping about  in  solitary  corners,  like  some  of  us,  he  would 
mount  the  most  mettlesome  horse  he  could  get,  when  but 
an  imp  no  bigger  than  themselves,  and  make  it  carry  him 
half  over  the  county  in  a  morning,  and  join  the  hunters 
when  there  were  any  out ;  and  yet  he  loved  the  old  great 
house  and  gardens  too,  but  had  too  much  spirit  to  be 
always  pent  up  within  their  boundaries ; — and  how  their 
uncle  grew  up  to  man's  estate  as  brave  as  he  was  hand- 
some, to  the  admiration  of  every  body,  but  of  their  great- 
grandmother  Field  most  especially ;  and  how  he  used  to 
carry  me  upon  his  back,  when  I  was  a  lame-fooled  boy, — 
for  he  was  a  good  bit  older  than  I, — many  a  mile,  when  I 
could  not  walk  for  pain  ;  and  how,  in  after  life,  he  became 
lame-footed  too,  and  I  did  not  always  (I  fear)  make  allow- 
ances enough  for  him  when  he  was  impatient,  and  in  pain, 


DREAM-CHILDREN.  129 

nor  remember  sufficiently  how  considerate  he  had  been  to 
me  when  I  was  lame-footed  ;  and  how,  when  he  died, 
though  he  had  not  been  dead  an  hour,  it  seemed  as  if  he 
had  died  a  great  while  ago  (such  a  distance  there  is  be- 
twixt life  and  death) ;  and  how  I  bore  his  death,  as  I 
thought,  pretty  well  at  first ;  but  afterwards  it  haunted  and 
haunted  me ;  and  though  I  did  not  cry  or  take  it  to  heart 
as  some  do,  and  as  I  think  he  would  have  done  if  I  had 
died,  yet  I  missed  him  all  day  long,  and  I  knew  not  till 
then  how  much  I  had  loved  him.  I  missed  his  kindness, 
and  I  missed  his  crossness,  and  wished  him  to  be  alive 
again,  to  be  quarrelling  with  him  (for  we  quarrelled  some- 
times), rather  than  not  have  him  again;  and  was  as  un- 
easy without  him,  as  he,  their  poor  uncle,  must  have  been 
when  the  doctor  took  off  his  limb.  Here  the  children  fell 
a-crying,  and  asked  if  their  little  mourning  which  they 
had  on  was  not  for  uncle  John ;  and  they  looked  up,  and 
prayed  me  not  to  go  on  about  their  uncle,  but  to  tell  them 
some  stories  about  their  pretty  dead  mother.  Then  I  told 
how,  for  seven  long  years,  in  hope  sometimes,  sometimes 
in  despair,  yet  persisting  ever,  I  courted  the  fair  Alice 
W — n;  and,  as  much  as  children  cculd  understand,  I  ex- 
plained to  them  what  coyness,  and  difficulty,  and  denial, 
meant  in  maidens;  when  suddenly,  turning  to  Alice,  the 
soul  of  the  first  Alice  looked  out  at  her  eyes,  with  such  a 
reality  of  representment,  that  I  became  in  doubt  which 
of  them  stood  there  before  me,  or  whose  that  bright  hair 
was ;  and  while  I  stood  gazing,  both  the  children  gradu- 
ally grew  fainter  to  my  view,  receding,  and  still  receding, 
till  nothing  at  last  but  two  mournful  features  were  seen  in 
the  uttermost  distance,  which,  without  speech,  strangely 
impressed  upon  me  the  effects  of  speech:  "We  are  not 
of  Alice,  nor  of  thee,  nor  are  we  children  at  all.  The 
children  of  Alice  call  Bartrum  father.  We  are  nothing; 
less  than  nothing,  and  dreams.  We  are  only  what  might 
have  been,  and  must  wait  upon  the  tedious  shores  of 


130  JOHN    BROWN. 

Lethe  millions  of  ages,  before  we  have  existence  and  a 
name."  And  immediately  awaking,  I  found  myself  quiet- 
ly seated  in  my  bachelor  arm-chair,  where  I  had  fallen 
asleep,  with  the  faithful  Bridget  unchanged  by  my  side. 


JOHN   BROWN. 

JOHN  BROWN,  the  Ayr,  or,  as  he  was  more  commonly 
designated  by  the  neighbors,  the  religious  carrier,  had 
been  absent,  during  the  month  of  January,  1685,  from  his 
home,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Muirkirk,  for  several  days. 
The  weather,  in  the  meantime,  had  become  extremely 
stormy,  and  a  very  considerable  fall  of  snow  had  taken 
place.  His  only  daughter,  a  girl  of  about  eleven  years  of 
age,  had  frequently,  during  the  afternoon  of  Saturday, 
looked  out  from  the  cottage  door  into  the  drift,  in  order  to 
report  to  her  mother,  who  was  occupied  with  the  nursing 
of  an  infant  brother,  the  anxious  occurrences  of  the  even- 
ing. "  Help,"  too,  the  domestic  cur,  had  not  remained 
an  uninterested  spectator  of  the  general  anxiety,  but,  by 
several  fruitless  and  silent  excursions  into  the  night,  had 
given  indisputable  testimony  that  the  object  of  his  search 
had  not  yet  neared  the  solitary  shieling.  It  was  a  long 
and  a  wild  road,  lying  over  an  almost  trackless  muir,  along 
which  John  Brown  had  to  come ;  and  the  cart-track, 
which,  even  in  better  weather,  and  with  the  advantage  of 
more  day-light,  might  easily  be  mistaken,  had,  undoubted- 
ly, ere  this,  become  invisible.  Besides,  John  had  long 
been  a  marked  bird,  having  rendered  himself  obnoxious  to 
the  "powers  that  were"  by  his  adherence  to  the  Sanquhar 
declaration;  his  attending  field-preachings,  or,  as  they 
were  termed,  "  conventicles;"  his  harboring  of  persecuted 


JOHN    BROWN.  131 

ministers;  and,  above  all,  by  a  moral,  a  sober,  and  a  pro- 
verbially devout  and  religious  conduct.  In  an  age  when 
immorality  was  held  to  be  synonymous  with  loyalty,  and 
irreligion  with  non-resistance  and  passive  obedience,  it 
was  exceedingly  dangerous  to  wear  such  a  character ; 
and,  accordingly,  there  had  not  been  wanting  information 
to  the  prejudice  of  this  quiet  and  godly  man.  Clavers, 
who,  ever  since  the  affair  of  Drumclog,  had  discovered 
more  of  the  merciless  and  revengeful  despot  than  of  the 
veteran  or  hero,  had  marked  his  name,  according  to  re- 
port, in  his  black  list ;  and  when  once  Clavers  had  taken 
his  resolution  and  his  measures,  the  Lord  have  mercy  upon 
those  against  whom  these  were  pointed.  He  seldom  hesi- 
tated in  carrying  his  plans  into  effect,  although  his  path 
lay  over  the  trampled  and  lacerated  feelings  of  humanity. 
Omens,  too,  of  an  unfriendly  and  evil-boding  import, 
had  not  been  a-wanting  in  the  cottage  of  John  Brown  to 
increase  the  alarm.  The  cat  had  mewed  suspiciously,  had 
appeared  restless,  and  had  continued  to  glare,  in  hideous 
indication,  from  beneath  the  kitchen  bed.  The  death- 
watch,  which  had  not  been  noticed  since  the  decease  of 
the  gudeman's  mother,  was  again,  in  the  breathless  pause 
of  listening  suspense,  heard  to  click  distinctly  ;  and  the 
cock,  instead  of  crowing,  as  on  ordinary  occasions,  imme- 
diately before  day-dawn,  had  originated  a  sudden  and  an 
alarming  flap  of  his  wings,  succeeded  by  a  fearful  scream, 
long  before  the  usual  bed-time.  It  was  a  gloomy  crisis ; 
and,  after  a  considerable  time  spent  in  dark  and  despair- 
ing reflection,  the  evening  lamp  was  at  last  trimmed,  and 
the  peat-fire  repaired  into  something  approaching  to  a 
cheerful  flame.  But  all  would  not  do;  for,  whilst  the  soul 
within  is  disquieted  and  in  suspense,  all  external  means 
and  appliances  are  inadequate  to  procure  comfort,  or  im- 
part even  an  air  of  cheerfulness.  At  last,  "  Help  "  sud- 
denly lifted  his  head  from  the  hearth,  shook  his  ears, 
sprung  to  his  feet,  and,  with  something  betwixt  a  growl 


132  JOHN    BROWN. 

and  a  bark,  rushed  towards  the  door,  at  which  the  "  yird 
drift"  was  now  entering  copiously.  It  was,  however,  a  false 
alarm.  The  cow  had  moved  beyond  the  "  hallan,"  or 
the  mice  had  come  into  sudden  contact,  and  squeaked 
behind  the  rafters.  John,  too,  it  was  reasoned  betwixt 
mother  and  daughter,  was  always  so  regular  and  point- 
ed in  his  arrivals,  and  this  being  Saturday  night,  it  was 
not  a  little  or  an  insignificant  obstruction  which  could 
have  prevented  him  from  being  home,  in  due  time, 
at  least,  for  family  worship.  His  cart,  in  fact,  had 
usually  been  pitched  up,  with  the  trams  supported 
against  the  peat-stack,  by  two  o'clock  of  the  afternoon ; 
and  the  evening  of  his  arrival  from  his  weekly  excursion 
to  Ayr,  was  always  an  occasion  of  affectionate  intercourse 
and  more  than  ordinary  interest.  Whilst  his  disconsolate 
wife,  therefore,  turned  her  eyes  towards  her  husband's 
chair,  and  to  the  family  Bible,  which  lay  in  a  "bole" 
within  reach  of  his  hand,  and,  at  the  same  time,  listened 
to  the  howling  and  intermitting  gusts  of  the  storm,  she 
could  not  avoid — it  was  not  in  nature  that  she  should — 
contrasting  her  present  with  her  former  situation  ;  thus  im- 
parting even  to  objects  of  the  most  kindly  and  comforting 
association  all  the  livid  and  darkening  hues  of  her  dis- 
consolate mind.  But  there  is  a  depth  and  a  reach  in  true 
and  genuine  piety  which  the  plummet  of  sorrow  may 
never  measure.  True  religion  sinks  into  the  heart  as  the 
refreshing  dew  does  into  the  chinks  and  the  crevices  of  the 
dry  and  parched  soil;  and  the  very  fissures  of  affliction, 
the  cleavings  of  the  soul,  present  a  more  ready  and  invi- 
ting, as  well  as  efficient  access  to  the  softening  influence 
of  piety. 

This  poor  woman  began  gradually  to  think  less  of  dan- 
ger, and  more  of  God ;  to  consider,  as  a  set-off  against  all 


JOHN    BROWN.  133 

her  fruitless  uneasiness,  the  vigilance  and  benevolence  of 
that  powerful  Being,  to  whom,  and  to  whose  will,  the  ele- 
ments, in  all  their  combinations  and  relations,  are  sub- 
servient; and,  having  quieted  her  younger  child  in  the 
cradle,  and  intimated  her  intention  by  a  signal  to  her 
daughter,  she  proceeded  to  take  down  the  family  Bible, 
and  to  read  out,  in  a  soft  and  subdued,  but  most  devout 
and  impressive  voice,  the  following  lines : — 

';  I  waited  for  the  Lord  my  God, 

And  patiently  did  bear  : 
At  length  to  me  he  did  incline, 
My  voice  and  cry  to  hear." 

These  two  solitary  worshippers  of  Him  whose  eyes  are 
on  the  just,  and  whose  ear  is  open  to  their  cry,  had  pro- 
ceeded to  the  beginning  of  the  fourth  verse  of  this  psalm, 
and  were  actually  employed  in  singing,  with  an  increased 
and  increasing  degree  of  fervor  and  devotion,  the  follow- 
ing trustful  and  consolatory  expressions — 

"  Oh,  blessed  is  the  man  whose  trust 
Upon  the  Lord  relics," — 

when  the  symphony  of  another  and  a  well-known  voice 
was  felt  to  be  present;  and  they  became  at  once  assured 
that  the  beloved  object  of  their  solicitude  had  joined  them, 
unseen  and  unperceived,  in  the  worship.  This  was  felt 
by  all  to  be  as  it  ought  to  have  been ;  nor  did  the  natural 
and  instinctive  desire  to  accommodate  the  weary  and 
snow-covered  traveller  with  such  conveniences  and  appli- 
ances as  his  present  condition  manifestly  demanded,  pre- 
vent the  psalm-singing  from  going  on,  and  the  service  from 
being  finished  with  all  suitable  decency.  Having  thus, 
in  the  first  instance,  rendered  thanks  unto  God,  and  bless- 
ed and  magnified  that  mercy  which  pervades,  and  directs, 
and  overrules,  every  agent  in  nature,  no  time  was  lost  in 
12 


134  JOHN    BROWN. 

attending  to  the  secondary  objects  of  inquiry  and  mani- 
festation ;  and  the  kind  heart  overflowed,  whilst  the  tongue 
and  the  hand  were  busied  in  "answer  meet,"  and  "in  ac- 
commodation suitable." 

In  all  the  wide  range  of  Scotland's  muirs  and  moun- 
tains, straths  and  glens,  there  was  not  to  be  found,  this 
evening,  a  happier  family  than  that  over  which  John 
Brown,  the  religious  carrier,  now  presided.  The  affec- 
tionate inquiries  and  solicitous  attentions  of  his  wife,  of 
his  partner  trusty  and  tried,  not  only  under  the  cares  and 
duties  of  life,  but  in  the  faith,  in  the  bonds  of  the  Cove- 
nant, and  in  all  that  similarity  of  sentiment  and  appre- 
hension upon  religious  subjects,  without  which  no  matri- 
monial union  can  possibly  ensure  happiness, — were  deeply 
felt  and  fully  appreciated.  They  two  had  sat  together  in 
the  "  Torwood,"  listening  to  the  free  and  fearless  accents 
of  excommunication,  as  they  rolled  in  dire  and  in  blasting 
destiny  from  the  half-inspired  lips  of  the  learned  and  in- 
trepid Mr.  Donald  Cargil.  They  had,  at  the  risk  of  their 
lives,  harbored  for  a  season,  and  enjoyed  the  comfortable 
communion  and  fellowship  of,  Mr.  Richard  Cameron,  im- 
mediately previous  to  his  death  in  the  unfortunate  ren- 
counter at  "  Airsmoss."  They  had  followed  into  and  out, 
through  the  shire  of  Ayr,  the  zealous  and  eloquent  Mr. 
John  King,  and  that  even  in  spite  of  the  interdict  of  coun- 
cil, and  after  that  a  price  had  been  set  upon  the  preacher's 
head.  Their  oldest  child  had  been  baptized  by  a  Pres- 
byterian and  ejected  minister  under  night,  and  in  the 
midst  of  a  wreath  of  snow ;  and  the  youngest  was  still 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  an  approven  servant  of  God,  to  re- 
ceive the  same  sanctified  ordinance.  And  if,  at  times,  a 
darker  thought  passed  suddenly  across  the  disk  of  their 


JOHN    BROWN.  135 

sunny  hearts,  and  if  the  cause  of  a  poor,  persecuted 
remnant,  the  interests  of  a  reformed,  and  suffering,  and 
bleeding  church,  supervened  in  cloud  upon  the  general 
quietude  and  acquiescence  of  their  souls,  this  was  in- 
stantly relieved  and  dispersed  by  a  deeper,  and  more 
sanctified,  and  more  trustful  tone  of  feeling ;  whilst  amidst 
the  twilight  beams  of  prophecy,  and  the  invigorating 
exercise  of  faith,  the  heart  was  disciplined  to  hope,  and 
reliance,  and  assurance.  And  if  at  times  the  halloo,  and 
the  yells,  and  the  clatter  of  persecution,  were  heard  upon 
the  hill-side,  or  up  the  glen,  where  the  Covenanters'  cave 
was  discovered,  and  five  honest  men  were  butchered  under 
a  sunny  morning,  and  in  cold  blood ;  and  if  the  voice  of 
Clavers,  or  of  his  immediate  deputy  in  the  work  of  bloody 
oppression,  "  Red  Rob,"  came  occasionally,  in  the  accents 
of  vindictive  exclamation,  upon  the  breeze  of  evening ; 
yet  hitherto  the  humble  "COTTAGE  IN  THE  Mum"  had 
escaped  notice,  and  the  tread  and  tramp  of  man  and  horse 
had  passed  mercifully,  and  almost  miraculously  by.  The 
general  current  of  events  closed  in  upon  such  occasional 
sources  of  agitation  and  alarm,  leaving  the  house  in  the 
muir  in  possession  of  all  that  domestic  happiness,  and 
even  quietude,  which  its  retirement  and  its  inmates  were 
calculated  to  ensure  and  to  participate. 

Early  next  morning,  the  cottage  of  John  Brown  was 
surrounded  by  a  troop  of  dragoons,  with  Clavers  at  their 
head.  John,  who  had  probably  a  presentiment  of  what 
might  happen,  urged  his  wife  and  daughter  to  remain 
within  doors,  insisting  that,  as  the  soldiers  were,  in  all 
likelihood,  in  search  of  some  other  individual,  he  should 
soon  be  able  to  dismiss  them.  By  this  time,  the  noise  oc- 
casioned by  the  trampling  and  neighing  of  horses,  com- 
mingled with  the  hoarse  and  husky  laugh  and  vocifera- 
tions of  the  dragoons,  had  brought  John,  half-dressed  and 
in  his  night-cap,  to  the  door.  Clavers  immediately  ac- 
costed him  by  name ;  and,  in  a  manner  peculiar  to  himself, 


136  JOHN    BROWN. 

intended  for  something  betwixt  the  expression  of  fun  and 
irony,  he  proceeded  to  make  inquiries  respecting  one 
"  Samuel  Aitkin,  a  godly  man,  and  a  minister  of  the 
word,  one  outrageously  addicted  to  prayer,  and  occasion- 
ally found  with  the  sword  of  the  flesh  in  one  hand,  and 
that  of  the  Spirit  in  the  other,  disseminating  sedition,  and 
propagating  disloyalty  amongst  his  majesty's  lieges."  John 
admitted,  at  once,  that  the  worthy  person  referred  to  was 
not  unknown  to  him,  asserting,  however,  at  the  same  time, 
that  of  his  present  residence,  or  place  of  hiding,  he  was  not 
free  to  speak.  "  No  doubt,  no  doubt,"  rejoined  the  ques- 
tioner;  "  you,  to  be  sure,  know  nothing !  How  should  you, 
all  innocence  and  ignorance  as  you  are '?  But  here  is  a  little 
chip  of  the  old  block,  which  may  probably  recollect  bet- 
ter, and  save  us  the  trouble  of  blowing  out  her  father's 
brains,  just  by  way  of  making  him  remember  a  little 
more  accurately."  "  You,  my  little  farthing  rush-light," 
said  "  Red  Rob,"  alighting  from  his  horse,  and  seizing 
the  girl  rudely,  and  with  prodigious  force,  by  the  wrists, 
"  you  remember  an  old  man,  with  a  long  beard,  and  a  bald 
head,  who  was  here  a  few  days  ago,  baptizing  your  sister, 
and  giving  many  good  advices  to  father  and  mother,  and 
who  is  now  within  a  few  miles  of  this  house,  just  up  in  a 
nice  snug  cave  in  the  glen  there,  to  which  you  can  readi- 
ly and  instantly  conduct  us,  you  know  ?  "  The  girl  look- 
ed first  at  her  mother,  who  had  now  advanced  into  the 
door-way,  then  at  her  father,  and  at  last  drooped  her  head, 
and  continued  to  preserve  a  complete  silence.  "  And  so," 
continued  the  questioner,  "  you  are  dumb ;  you  cannot 
speak ;  your  tongue  is  a  little  obstinate  or  so ;  and  you  must 


JOHN    BROWN.  137 

not  tell  family  secrets.  But  what  think  you,  my  little  chick, 
of  speaking  with  your  fingers,  of  having  a  pat,  and  a  proper, 
and  a  pertinent  answer  just  ready,  my  love,  at  your  finger 
ends,  as  one  may  say.  As  the  Lord  lives,  and  as  my  soul  lives, 
but  this  will  make  a  dainty  nosegay  "  (displaying  a  thumbi- 
kin  or  finger-screw)  "for  my  sweet  little  Covenanter;  and 
then  "  (applying  the  instrument  of  torture,  meanwhile,  and 
adjusting  it  to  the  thumb)  "you  will  have  no  manner  of 
trouble  whatever  in  recollecting  yourself:  it  will  just  come 
to  you  like  the  lug  of  a  stoup  :  and — don't  knit  your  brows 
so"  (for  the  pain  had  become  insufferable) — "  then  we  shall 
have  you  quite  chatty  and  amusing,  I  warrant."  The 
mother,  who  could  stand  this  no  longer,  rushed  upon 
the  brutal  executioner,  and,  with  expostulations,  threats, 
and  the  most  impassioned  entreaties,  endeavored  to  relax 
the  questioner's  twist.  "  Can  you,  mistress,  recollect  any 
thing  of  this  man  we  are  in  quest  of?  "  resumed  Clavers, 
haughtily.  "  It  may  save  us  both  some  trouble,  and  your 
daughter  a  continuance  and  increase  of  her  present  suffer- 
ing, if  you  will  just  have  the  politeness  to  make  us  ac- 
quainted with  what  you  happen  to  know  upon  the  subject." 
The  poor  woman  seemed  for  an  instant  to  hesitate ;  and 
her  daughter  looked  most  piteously  and  distractedly  into 
her  countenance,  as  if  expectant  and  desirous  of  respite 
through  her  mother's  compliance.  "  Woman! "  exclaimed 
the  husband,  in  a  tone  of  indignant  surprise,  "  hast  thou 
so  soon  forgot  thy  God  ?  and  shall  the  fear  of  any  thing 
which  man  can  do  induce  thee  to  betray  innocent  blood?" 
He  said  no  more  ;  but  he  had  said  enough ;  for  from  that 
instant  the  whole  tone  of  his  wife's  feelings  was  changed, 
and  her  soul  was  wound  up,  as  if  by  the  hand  of  Omnipo- 
tence, into  resolution  and  daring.  "  Bravo!  "  exclaimed 
the  arch-persecutor,  "bravo!  old  Canticles;  thou  word'stit 
well ;  and  so  you  three  pretty  innocents  have  laid  your 


12 


138  JOHN    BROWN. 

holy  heads  together ;  and  you  have  resolved  to  die,  should 
it  so  please  God  and  us,  with  a  secret  in  your  breast,  and 
a  lie  in  your  mouth,  like  the  rest  of  your  psalm-singing, 
hypocritical,  canting  sect,  rather  than  discover  guid  Mr. 
Aitkin  ! — pious  Mr.  Aitkin  ! — worthy  Mr.  Aitkin  !  But 
we  shall  try  what  light  this  little  telescope  of  mine  will  af- 
ford upon  the  subject,"  pointing  at  the  same  time  to  a 
carabine  or  holster  pistol,  which  hung  suspended  from  the 
saddle  of  his  horse.  "  This  cold,  frosty  morning  requires 
that  one,"  continued  Clavers,  "  should  be  employed,  were 
it  for  no  other  purpose  than  just  to  gain  heat  by  the  exer- 
cise. And  so,  old  Pragmatical,  in  order  that  you  may  not 
catch  cold  by  so  early  an  exposure  to  the  keen  air,  we  will 
take  the  liberty  "  (hereupon  the  whole  troop  gathered  round, 
and  presented  muskets),  "  for  the  benefit  of  society,  and  for 
the  honor  and  safety  of  the  king, — never  to  speak  of  the 
glory  of  God  and  the  good  of  souls, — simply  and  uncere- 
moniously, and  in  the  neatest  and  most  expeditious  man- 
ner imaginable,  to  blow  out  your  brains."  John  Brown 
dropped  down  instantly,  and  as  it  were  instinctively,  upon 
his  knees,  whilst  his  wife  stood  by  in  seeming  composure; 
and  his  daughter  had  happily  become  insensible  to  all  ex- 
ternal objects  and  transactions  whatever.  "  What !  "  ex- 
claimed Clavers ;  "  and  so  you  must  pray  too,  to  be  sure ; 
and  we  shall  have  a  last  speech  and  a  dying  testimony 
lifted  up  in  the  presence  of  peat  stacks,  and  clay  walls, 
and  snow  wreaths ;  but  as  these  are  pretty  stanch  and 
confirmed  loyalists,  I  do  not  care  though  we  intrust  you 
with  five  minutes  of  devotional  exercise,  provided  you  steer 
clear  of  king,  council,  and  Richard  Cameron.  So  pro- 
ceed, good  Jtfhn,  but  be  short  and  pithy.  My  lambs  are* 
not  accustomed  to  long  prayers,  nor  will  they  readily  soften 
under  the  pathetic  whining  of  your  devotions."  But  in 
this  last  surmise  Clavers  was  for  once  mistaken ;  for  the 
prayer  of  this  poor  and  uneducated  man  ascended,  that 
morning,  in  expressions  at  once  so  earnest,  so  devout,  and 


JOHN    BROWN.  139 

so  overpoweringly  pathetic,  that  deep  silence  succeeded  at 
last  to  oaths  and  ribaldry ;  and  as  the  following  conclud- 
ing sentences  were  pronounced,  there  were  evident  marks 
of  better  and  relenting  feelings.  "  And  now,  guid  Lord," 
continued  this  death-doomed  and  truly  Christian  sufferer, 
"  since  thou  hast  nae  mair  use  for  thy  servant  in  this  world, 
and  since  it  is  thy  good  and  rightful  pleasure  that  I  should 
serve  thee  better  and  love  thee  more  elsewhere,  I  leave 
this  puir  widow  woman,  with  the  helpless  and  fatherless 
children,  upon  thy  hands.  We  have  been  happy  in  each 
other  here;  and  now  that  we  are  to  part  for  a  while,  we 
maun  e'en  look  forward  to  a  more  perfect  and  enduring 
happiness  hereafter.  And  as  for  the  puir  blindfolded  and 
infatuated  creatures,  the  present  ministers  of  thy  will, 
Lord,  reclaim  them  from  the  error  and  the  evil  of  their 
courses  ere  it  be  too  late ;  and  may  they  who  have  sat  in 
judgment  and  in  oppression  in  this  lonely  place,  and  on 
this  blessed  morning,  and  upon  a  puir,  weak,  defenceless 
fellow-creature,  find  that  mercy  at  last  from  thee  which 
they  have  this  day  refused  to  thy  unworthy  but  faithful 
servant. — Now,  Isbel,"  continued  this  defenceless  and 
amiable  martyr,  "  the  time  is  come  at  last,  of  which,  you 
know,  I  told  you  on  that  day,  when  first  I  proposed  to 
unite  hand  and  heart  with  yours;  and  are  you  willing,  for 
the  love  of  God  and  his  rightful  authority,  to  part  with  me 
thus?"  To  which  the  poor  woman  replied,  with  perfect 
composure,  "  The  Lord  gave,  and  he  taketh  away.  I 
have  had  a  sweet  loan  of  you,  my  dear  John;  and  I  can 
part  with  you  for  his  sake,  as  freely  as  ever  I  parted  with 
a  mouthful  of  meat  to  the  hungry,  or  a  night's  lodging  to 
the  weary  and  benighted  traveller."  So  saying,  she  ap- 
proached her  still  kneeling  and  blindfolded  husband, 
clasped  him  round  the  neck,  kissed  and  embraced  him 
closely,  and  then,  lifting  up  her  person  into  an  attitude  of 


140  JOHN    BROWN. 

determined  endurance,  and  eyeing  from  head  to  foot  every 
soldier  who  stood  with  his  carabine  levelled,  she  retired 
slowly  and  firmly  to  the  spot  which  she  had  formerly  occu- 
pied. "  Come,  come  ;  let's  have  no  more  of  this  whining 
work,"  interrupted  Clavers,  suddenly.  "Soldiers,  do  your 
duty."  But  the  words  fell  upon  a  circle  of  statues ;  and, 
though  they  all  stood  with  their  muskets  presented,  there 
was  not  a  finger  which  had  power  to  draw  the  fatal  trigger. 
There  ensued  an  awful  pause,  through  which  a  "  God  Al- 
mighty bless  your  tender  hearts  !  "  was  heard  coming  from 
the  lips  of  the  now  agitated  and  almost  distracted  wife. 
But  Clavers  was  not  in  the  habit  of  giving  his  orders 
twice,  or  of  expostulating  with  disobedience.  So,  extract- 
ing a  pistol  from  the  holster  of  his  saddle,  he  primed  and 
cocked  it,  and  then,  walking  firmly  and  slowly  up  through 
the  circle  close  to  the  ear  of  his  victim,  *  *  * 
*.*  *  *  *  *  **## 

There  was  a  momentary  murmur  of  discontent  and  of  dis- 
approbation amongst  the  men,  as  they  looked  upon  the 
change  which  a  single  awful  instant  had  effected  ,s  and 
even  "  Red  Rob,"  though  a  Covenanting  slug  still  stuck 
smartingly  in  his  shoulder,  had  the  hardihood  to  mut- 
ter, loud  enough  to  be  heard,  "This  is  too  bad!"  The 
widow  of  John  Brown  gave  one,  and  but  one,  shriek  of 
horror  as  the  fatal  engine  exploded  ;  and  then,  address- 
ing herself  leisurely,  as  if  to  the  discharge  of  some  ordi- 
nary domestic  duty,  she  began  to  unfold  a  napkin  from 
her  neck.  "What  think  ye,  good  woman,  of  your  bonny 
man  now  1 "  vociferated  Clavers,  returning,  at  the  same 
time,  the  pistol,  with  a  plunge,  into  the  holster  from  which 
it  had  been  extracted.  "  I  had  always  good  reason,"  re- 
plied the  woman,  firmly  and  deliberately,  "  to  think  weel 
of  him;  and  I  think  mair  o'  him  now  than  ever.  But  how 
will  Graham  of  Claverhouse  account  to  God  and  man  for 
this  morning's  work  ?  "  continued  the  respondent,  firmly. 
"To  man,"  answered  the  ruffian,  "I  can  be  answerable; 


LITTLE    RACHEL.  141 

and  as  to  God,  I  will  take  him  in  my  own  hands."  He 
then  marched  off,  and  left  her  with  the  corpse.  She 
spread  the  napkin  leisurely  upon  the  snow,  gathered  up 
the  scattered  fragments  of  her  husband's  head,  covered 
his  body  with  a  plaid,  and,  sitting  down  with  her  youngest 
and  yet  unbaptized  infant,  wept  bitterly. 

The  cottage,  and  the  kail-yard,  and  the  peat-stack,  and 
the  whole  little  establishment  of  John  Brown,  the  religious 
carrier,  have  long  disappeared  from  the  heath  and  the 
muir ;  but  the  little  spot,  within  one  of  the  windings  of 
the  burn,  where  the  "  House  in  the  Muir"  stood,  is  still 
green,  amidst  surrounding  heath;  and  in  the  very  centre 
of  that  spot,  there  lies  a  slab,  or  flat  stone,  now  almost 
covered  over  with  grass,  upon  which,  with  a  little  clearing 
away  of  the  moss  from  the  faded  characters,  the  following 
rude,  but  expressive  lines  may  still  be  read  : — 

"  Clavers  might  murder  godly  Brown, 
But  could  not  rob  him  of  his  crown ; 
Here  in  this  place  from  earth  he  took  departure ; 
Now  he  has  got  the  garland  of  the  martyr." 


LITTLE    RACHEL. 

IN  one  of  the  wild  nooks  of  heath  land,  which  are  set 
so  prettily  amidst  our  richly-timbered  valleys,  stands  the 
cottage  of  Robert  Ford,  an  industrious  and  substantial 
blacksmith.  There  is  a  striking  appearance  of  dingy 
comfort  about  the  whole  demesne,  forming,  as  it  does,  a 
sort  of  detached  and  isolated  territory  in  the  midst  of  the 
unenclosed  common  by  which  it  is  surrounded.  The  am- 
ple garden,  whose  thick,  dusty,  quickset  hedge  runs  along 
the  high  road ;  the  snug  cottage,  whose  gable  end  abuts  on 


142  LITTLE    RACHEL. 

the  causeway ;  the  neat  court,  which  parts  the  house  from 
the  long,  low-browed  shop  and  forge;  and  the  stable,  cart- 
shed,  and  piggeries,  behind, — have  all  an  air  of  rustic  opu- 
lence: even  the  clear,  irregular  pond,  that  adjoins,  half- 
covered  with  ducks  and  geese,  and  the  old  pollard  oak, 
with  a  milestone  leaning  against  it,  that  overhangs  the 
dwelling,  seem  in  accordance  with  its  consequence  and 
character,  and  give  finish  and  harmony  to  the  picture. 

The  inhabitants  were,  also,  in  excellent  keeping.  Robert 
Ford,  a  stout,  hearty,  middle-aged  man,  sooty  and  grim  as 
a  collier,  paced  backward  and  forward  between  the  house 
and  the  forge  with  the  step  of  a  man  of  substance — his 
very  leather  apron  had  an  air  of  importance :  his  wife, 
Dinah,  a  merry,  comely  woman,  sat  at  the  open  door,  in 
an  amplitude  of  cap,  and  gown,  and  handkerchief,  darn- 
ing an  eternal  worsted  stocking,  and  hailed  the  passers-by 
with  the  cheerful  freedom  of  one  well  to  do  in  the  world; 
and  their  three  sons,  well-grown  lads,  from  sixteen  to 
twenty,  were  the  pride  of  the  village  for  industry  and  good 
humor — to  say  nothing  of  their  hereditary  love  of  cricket. 
On  a  Sunday,  when  they  had  on  their  best  clothes,  and 
cleanest  faces,  they  were  the  handsomest  youths  in  the 
parish.  Robert  Ford  was  proud  of  his  boys,  as  well  he 
might  be,  and  Dinah  was  still  prouder. 

Altogether,  it  was  a  happy  family,  and  a  pretty  scene ; 
especially  of  an  evening,  when  the  forge  was  at  work,  and 
when  the  bright  firelight  shone  through  the  large,  unglazed 
window,  illumining,  with  its  strange,  red,  unearthly  light, 
the  group  that  stood  round  the  anvil ;  showers  of  sparks 
flying  from  the  heated  iron,  and  the  loud  strokes  of  the 
sledge-hammer  resounding  over  all  the  talking  and  laugh- 
ing of  the  workmen,  reinforced  by  three  or  four  idlers,  who 
were  lounging  about  the  shop.  It  formed  a  picture,  which, 
in  a  summer  evening,  we  could  seldom  pass  without  stop- 
ping to  contemplate :  beside,  I  had  a  roadside  acquaint- 
ance with  Mrs.  Ford,  had  taken  shelter  in  her  cottage 


LITTLE    RACHEL.  143 

from  thunder-storms  and  snow-storms,  and,  even  by  day- 
light, could  not  walk  by  without  a  friendly  "  How  d'ye  do?" 
Late  in  last  autumn,  we  observed  an  addition  to  the 
family,  in  the  person  of  a  pretty,  little,  shy  lass,  of  some 
eight  years  old,  a  fair,  slim,  small-boned  child,  with  deli- 
cate features,  large  blue  eyes,  a  soft  color,  light,  shining 
hair,  and  a  remarkable  neatness  in  her  whole  appearance. 
She  seemed  constantly  busy,  either  sitting  on  a  low  stool 
by  Dinah's  side,  at  needle-work,  or  gliding  about  the 
kitchen,  engaged  in  some  household  employment ;  for  the 
wide-open  door  generally  favored  the  passengers  with  a 
full  view  of  the  interior,  from  the  fully-stored  bacon-rack 
to  the  nicely-swept  hearth ;  and  the  little  girl,  if  she  per- 
ceived herself  to  be  looked  at,  would  slip  behind  the  clock- 
case,  or  creep  under  the  dresser,  to  avoid  notice.  Mrs. 
Ford,  when  questioned  as  to  her  new  inmate,  said  that 
she  was  her  husband's  niece,  the  daughter  of  a  younger 
brother,  who  had  worked  somewhere  London-way,  and 
had  died  lately,  leaving  a  widow,  with  eleven  children,  in 
distressed  circumstances.  She  added,  that,  having  no  girl 
of  their  own,  they  had  taken  little  Rachel  for  good  and  all, 
and  vaunted  much  of  her  handiness,  her  sempstressship, 
and  her  scholarship;  how  she  could  read  a  chapter  with 
the  parish  clerk,  or  make  a  shirt  with  the  schoolmistress. 
Hereupon  she  called  her  to  display  her  work, — which  was 
indeed  extraordinary  for  so  young  a  needle-woman, — and 
would  fain  have  had  her  exhibit  her  other  accomplish- 
ment of  reading ;  but  the  poor  little  maid  hung  down  her 
head,  and  blushed  up  to  her  white  temples,  and  almost 
cried,  and,  though  too  frightened  to  run  away,  shrank 
back,  till  she  was  fairly  hidden  behind  her  portly  aunt  ; 
so  that  that  performance  was  perforce  pretermitted.  Mrs. 
Ford  was  rather  scandalized  at  this  shyness,  and  expos- 
tulated, coaxed,  and  scolded,  after  the  customary  fashion 
on  such  occasions.  "  Shame-facedness  was,"  she  said, 
"Rachel's  only  fault;  and  she  believed  the  child  could  not 


144  LITTLE    RACHEL. 

help  it.  Her  uncle  and  cousins  were  as  fond  of  her  as 
fond  could  be:  but  she  was  afraid  of  them  all,  and  had 
never  entered  the  shop  since  there  she  had  been. 
Rachel,"  she  added,  "  was  singular  in  all  her  ways,  and 
never  spent  a  farthing  on  apples  or  gingerbread,  though 
she  had  a  bran  new  sixpence,  which  her  uncle  had  given 
her  for  hemming  his  cravats :  she  believed  that  she  was 
saving  it  to  send  home." 

A  month  passed  away,  during  which  time,  from  the 
mere  habit  of  seeing  us  frequently,  Rachel  became  so  far 
tamed  as  to  behold  me  and  my  usual  walking  companion 
without  much  dismay ;  would  drop  her  little  courtesy  with- 
out coloring  so  very  deeply,  and  was  even  won  to  accept 
a  bunn  from  that  dear  companion's  pocket,  and  to  answer 
yes  or  no  to  his  questions. 

At  the  end  of  that  period,  as  we  were  returning  home,  in 
the  twilight,  from  a  round  of  morning  visits,  we  perceived 
a  sort  of  confusion  in  the  forge,  and  heard  loud  sounds  of 
scolding  from  within  the  shop,  mixed  with  bitter  lamenta- 
tions from  without.  On  a  nearer  approach,  we  discovered 
that  the  object  in  distress  was  an  old  acquaintance,  a 
young  Italian  boy,  such  a  wanderer  from  the  Lake  of 
Como  as  he  whom  Wordsworth  has  addressed  so  beau- 
tifully :— 

"  Or  on  thy  head  to  poise  a  show 

Of  plaster  craft  in  seemly  row  j 
The  graceful  form  of  milk-white  steed, 
Or  bird  that  soared  with  Ganymede ; 
Or  through  our  hamlets  thou  wilt  bear 
The  sightless  Milton,  with  his  hair 

Around  his  placid  temples  curled ; 

And  Shakspeare  at  his  side a  freight, 

If  clay  could  think,  and  mind  were  weight, 

For  him  who  bore  the  world !  " 

He  passed  us  almost  every  day,  carrying  his  tray  full 
of  images  into  every  quarter  of  the  village.  We  had  often 


"The  cause  of  his  grief  was  risible." — Page  14o. 


LITTLE    RACHEL.  145 

wondered  how  he  could  find  vent  for  his  commodities ;  but 
our  farmers'  wives  patronize  that  branch  of  art;  and  Stefa- 
no,  with  his  light,  firm  step,  his  upright  carriage,  his  danc- 
ing eyes,  and  his  broken  English,  was  a  universal  favorite. 

At  present,  the  poor  boy's  keen  Italian  features,  and 
bright,  dark  eyes,  were  disfigured  by  crying;  and  his  loud 
wailings,  and  southern  gesticulations,  bore  witness  to  the 
extremity  of  his  distress.  The  cause  of  his  grief  was  visi- 
ble in  the  half-empty  tray  that  rested  on  the  window  of 
the  forge,  and  the  green  parrot  which  lay  in  fragments  on 
the  footpath.  The  wrath  of  Robert  Ford  required  some 
further  explanation,  which  the  presence  of  his  worship 
instantly  brought  forth,  although  the  enraged  blacksmith 
was  almost  too  angry  to  speak  intelligibly. 

It  appeared  that  his  youngest,  and  favorite  son,  Wil- 
liam, had  been  chaffering  with  Stefano  for  this  identical 
green  parrot,  to  present  to  Rachel,  when  a  mischievous 
lad,  running  along  the  road,  had  knocked  it  from  the  win 
dow-sill,  and  reduced  it  to  the  state  which  we  saw.  So  far 
was  mere  misfortune;  and,  undoubtedly,  if  left  to  himself, 
our  good  neighbor  would  have  indemnified  the  little  mer- 
chant ;  but  poor  Stefano,  startled  at  the  suddenness  of  the 
accident,  trembling  at  the  anger  of  the  severe  master  on 
whose  account  he  travelled  the  country,  and  probably,  in 
the  darkness,  really  mistaking  the  offender,  unluckily  ac- 
cused William  Ford  of  the  overthrow ;  which  accusation, 
although  the  assertion  was  instantly  and  humbly  retracted 
on  William's  denial,  so  aroused  the  English  blood  of  the 
father,  a  complete  John  Bull,  that  he  was  raving,  till  black 
in  the  face,  against  cheats  and  foreigners,  and  threatening 
the  young  Italian  with  whipping,  and  the  treadmill,  and 
justices,  and  stocks,  when  we  made  our  appearance ;  and 
the  storm,  having  nearly  exhausted  its  fury,  gradually 
abated. 

By  this  time,  however,  the  clamor  had  attracted  a  little 
crowd  of  lookers-on  from  the  house  and  the  road — amongst 
13 


146  EBONY    AND    TOPAZ. 

the  rest,  Mrs  Ford,  and,  peeping  behind  ner  aunt,  little 
Rachel.  Stefano  continued  to  exclaim,  in  his  imperfect 
accent,  "  He  will  beat  me ! "  and  to  sob,  and  crouch,  and 
shiver,  as  if  actually  suffering  under  the  impending  chas- 
tisement. It  was  impossible  not  to  sympathize  with  such 
a  reality  of  distress,  although  we  felt  that  an  English  boy, 
similarly  situated,  would  have  been  too  stout-hearted  not 
to  restrain  its  expression.  "  Sixpence !"  and  "My  master 
will  beat  me ! "  intermixed  with  fresh  bursts  of  crying, 
were  all  his  answers  to  the  various  inquiries  as  to  the 
amount  of  his  loss,  with  which  he  was  assailed ,  and 
young  William  Ford,  "  a  lad  of  grace,"  was  approaching 
his  hand  to  his  pocket,  and  my  dear  companion  had  just 
drawn  forth  his  purse,  when  the  good  intentions  of  the  one 
were  arrested  by  the  stern  commands  of  his  father,  and 
the  other  was  stopped  by  the  reappearance  of  Rachel,  who 
had  run  back  to  the  house,  and  now  darted  through  the 
group,  holding  out  her  own  new  sixpence,  her  hoarded 
sixpence,  and  put  it  into  Stefano's  hand  ! 

It  may  be  imagined  that  the  dear  child  was  no  loser  by 
her  generosity :  she  was  loaded  with  caresses  by  every 
one,  which,  too  much  excited  to  feel  her  bashfulness,  she 
not  only  endured,  but  returned.  Her  uncle,  thus  rebuked 
by  an  infant,  was  touched  almost  to  tears.  He  folded  her 
in  his  arms,  kissed  her  and  blessed  her;  gave  Stefano  half 
a  crown  for  the  precious  sixpence,  and  swore  to  keep  it  as 
Vrelic  and  a  lesson  as  long  as  he  lived. 


EBONY  AND  TOPAZ ;— A  TALE  BY  VOLTAIRE. 

EVERY  body  who  lives  in  the  province  of  Candahar 
knows  the  story  of  young  Rustan.  He  was  the  only  son 
of  a  mirzah  of  that  country.  Mirzah  means  the  same 


EBONY    AND    TOPAZ.  147 

thing  as  marquis  among  the  French,  or  baron  among  the 
Germans.  Rustan's  father,  the  mirzah  in  question,  was 
pretty  well  off  in  the  world.  It  was  contemplated  to  mar- 
ry young  Rustan  to  a  young  lady,  a  mirzahess,  of  the 
same  rank.  Both  the  families  wanted  to  bring  about  the 
match  bitterly.  He  was  to  become  the  comfort  of  his 
relations,  to  make  his  dear  wife  happy,  and  to  be  happy 
along  with  her. 

But,  as  ill  luck  would  have  it,  he  had  seen  the  Princess 
of  Cachemire  at  the  fair  of  Cabul,  which  is  the  largest 
fair  in  the  world,  and  more  crowded,  by  all  odds,  than 
either  that  of  Bassora  or  of  Astracan ;  and  this  was  the 
reason  why  the  old  Prince  of  Cachemire  came  to  this  fair 
with  his  daughter. 

Now,  he  had  lost  the  two  most  precious  things  in  his 
treasury.  The  one  was  a  diamond,  as  big  as  your  thumb, 
on  which  his  daughter's  likeness  was  engraved,  by  an  art 
which  those  Indians  had  in  those  days,  and  which  has 
been  lost  since.  The  other  was  a  dart,  which  went,  of  its 
own  accord,  wherever  you  wanted  it  to  go — a  thing  no 
ways  strange  among  us,  though  it  was  thought  to  be  queer 
among  the  people  at  Cachemire. 

One  of  his  highness's  faquirs  stole  these  two  jewels, 
and  carried  them  to  the  princess.  "  Keep,"  said  he, 
*'  these  two  articles  very  carefully.  Your  fate  depends  on 
them."  Then  he  went  his  ways,  and  was  never  seen  any 
more.  The  Duke  of  Cachemire,  in  despair,  determined 
to  go  to  the  fair  of  Cabul,  and  to  see  whether,  among  all 
the  merchants  who  came  there  from  the  four  corners  of 
the  world,  he  could  not  find  some  one  who  had  his  trinket 
and  his  weapon.  He  carried  his  daughter  with  him  in  all 
his  travels.  She  kept  her  diamond  snugly  shut  up  in  her 
corsage.  As  for  the  dart,  which  she  could  not  so  well 
hide,  she  had  carefully  locked  it  up  at  Cachemire,  in  a 
big  Chinese  box. 

It  was,  then,  at  Cabul,  that  she  and  Rustan  met,  and 


148  EBONY    AND    TOPAZ. 

fell  to  loving  one  another,  with  all  the  simplicity  natural 
to  their  time  of  life,  and  all  the  tenderness  natural  to  the 
climate  of  their  birth.  As  a  pledge  of  her  regard,  the 
princess  gave  him  her  diamond  ;  and  Rustan  promised  to 
come  and  see  her,  privately,  at  Cachemire. 

The  young  mirzah  had  two  favorite  servants,  who  acted 
as  his  secretaries,  squires,  major-domos,  and  valet  de 
chambres.  One  was  named  TOPAZ.  He  was  a  good- 
looking,  well-made  fellow,  white  as  a  Circassian,  ami- 
able and  supple  as  an  Armenian,  and,  withal,  as  wise 
as  a  Guebre.  The  others  name  was  EBONY.  He  was 
a  negro ;  handsome  enough,  too,  and  more  active  and 
busy  than  Topaz  ;  and  nothing  troubled  his  conscience. 
To  these  gentlemen  Rustan  communicated  his  plan  of 
travelling  to  Cachemire  after  the  princess.  Topaz  tried 
to  divert  him  from  his  purpose,  with  the  discreet  zeal  of  a 
servant  who  does  not  want  to  offend  his  master.  He  told 
him  all  the  risks  he  would  have  to  encounter.  He  would 
leave,  alas  !  two  interesting  families  in  despair.  He  would 
plunge  a  dagger  into  the  hearts  of  his  parents.  He 
staggered  Rustan ;  but  Ebony  reassured  him,  and  re- 
moved all  his  scruples. 

The  young  gentleman  wanted  cash  for  such  a  long  jour- 
ney. The  wise  Topaz  would  not  have  found  any  to  lend 
him.  Ebony  made  the  arrangements.  He  dexterously 
abstracted  his  master's  diamond,  had  another  made  that 
looked  just  like  it,  which  he  put  in  its  place,  and  pawned 
the  true  one  to  an  Armenian  for  some  thousands  of 
roupees. 

So  soon  as  the  marquis  got  his  roupees,  all  was  ready 
for  starting.  They  clapped  his  baggage  on  an  elephant, 
and  himself  they  mounted  on  a  horse.  Topaz  then  said 
to  his  master,  "  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  remonstrating 
with  you  on  your  undertaking ;  but,  having  entered  my 


EBONY    AND    TOPAZ.  149 

protest,  I  shall  do  my  duty.  I  am  yours  to  command.  I 
love  you  truly,  and  I  will  follow  you  to  the  world's  end. 
But,  as  we  go  along  on  the  road,  let  us  consult  the  oracle, 
which  is  only  two  parasangs  off."  Rustan  consented. 
The  oracle  answered,  "If  you  go  to  the  east,  you  will 
be  towards  the,  west.""  Rustan  did  not  know  what  to  make 
out  of  this  answer.  Topaz  maintained  that  it  boded  no 
good.  The  eternally  complaisant  Ebony  persuaded  his 
master  that  it  was  very  favorable  indeed. 

There  happened  to  be  another  oracle  at  Cabul ;  so 
they  went  there  also.  The  oracle  of  Cabul  replied,  "  If 
thou  dost  possess,  thou  shall  not  possess  ;  if  thou  art  con- 
queror, thou  shalt  not  conquer ;  if  thou  art  Rustan,  thou 
shalt  not  be  such."  This  oracle  seemed  more  unintelligi- 
ble than  the  other.  "  Take  care  of  yourself,"  cried  To- 
paz. "  Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  Ebony.  And  this  last 
officer,  as  you  may  suppose,  always  had  his  master's  ear, 
as  long  as  he  encouraged  his  passion  and  flattered  his 
hopes. 

When  they  left  Cabul,  they  travelled  through  a  great 
forest.  Here  they  sat  down  on  the  grass  to  eat,  and 'let 
their  cattle  feed.  They  were  about  unloading  the  ele- 
phant, who  carried  their  victuals  and  dining  equipage, 
when  it  was  observed  that  Messrs.  Topaz  and  Ebony  had 
disappeared  from  the  little  caravan.  The  servants  looked 
after  them  in  every  direction,  and  filled  the  woods  with 
their  halloos,  but  came  back  without  seeing  any  thing  of 
them,  or  getting  an  answer.  "  We  have  only  met,"  said 
they  to  Rustan,  "  with  an  eagle  fighting  with  a  vulture, 
and  pulling  out  all  his  feathers."  The  mention  of  this 
duel  excited  Rustan's  curiosity.  He  went  on  foot  to  the 
spot.  He  saw  no  vulture,  and  no  eagle  ;  but  he  saw  his 
own  elephant,  all  loaded  with  his  own  baggage,  getting 
attacked  by  a  great  big  rhinoceros.  One  beast  butted 


13 


150  EBONY    AND    TOPAZ. 

with  his  horns,  the  other  thwacked  with  his  proboscis. 
The  rhinoceros  cleared  out  when  he  saw  Rustan.  His 
elephant  was  brought  to  him  ;  but  they  saw  no  more  of 
the  horses.  "  Strange  things  happen  in  forests  when  one 
is  travelling,"  observed  Rustan.  The  servants  were 
thrown  into  consternation  ;  and  their  master  was  dread- 
fully sorry  to  lose,  at  once,  his  horses,  his  dear  negro,  and 
his  wise  Topaz,  for  whom  he  always  had  a  sneaking  re- 
gard, though  he  never  followed  his  advice. 

Meanwhile,  he  was  consoled  by  the  thought,  that  he 
should  soon  be  at  the  feet  of  the  beautiful  Princess  of 
Cachemire ;  whereupon  he  met  a  great  streaked  ass, 
which  a  terrible  strong  peasant  was  belaboring,  with  most 
unmerciful  bangs,  with  a  club.  There  are  no  animals 
more  beautiful,  rare,  and  gracefully  swift,  than  that  kind 
of  asses.  This  one  responded  to  the  shower  of  licks  be- 
stowed on  him  by  the  scoundrel  peasant,  with  such  kicks 
as  would  have  upset  an  oak  with  its  roots.  The  young 
mirzah,  as  was  correct,  took  the  ass's  part ;  and  a  charm- 
ing creature  it  was.  The  rustic,  thereupon,  took  to  his 
legs,  saying  to  the  ass,  "111  fix  you  one  of  these  days." 
The  ass  thanked  his  deliverer,  after  his  fashion,  drew 
nigh  him,  suffered  himself  to  be  caressed,  and  caressed 
Rustan  in  return.  After  he  had  had  his  dinner,  Rustan 
mounted  on  this  ass,  and  set  forth  for  Cachemire  with  his 
suite,  some  of  whom  followed  afoot,  and  others  on  the 
elephant. 

But  he  had  scarcely  got  astride  on  the  ass,  when  the 
beautiful  animal  turned  towards  Cabul,  instead  of  taking 
the  road  to  Cachemire.  The  rider  sawed,  and  jerked, 
and  squeezed  with  his  knees,  and  pricked  with  his  spurs, 
gave  his  charger  the  reins,  and  then  pulled  him  in,  and 
flogged  him  on  both  sides  ;  but  it  was  of  no  use  :  the  ob- 
stinate beast  would  go  to  Cabul. 

Rustan  got  into  a  sweat,  and  worry,  and  a  passion, 
when  a  camel  merchant  met  him,  and  said,  "  Mister, 


EBONY    AND    TOPAZ.  151 

that's  an  ugly  ass  of  yours,  that  will  carry  you  where  you 
don't  want  to  go.  If  you'll  give  him  to  me,  you  may 
pick  out  four  of  my  camels."  Rustan  thanked  Provi- 
dence for  such  a  good  bargain.  "  Topaz  was  very  wrong," 
said  he,  "  to  be  telling  me  that  my  journey  would  prove 
unfortunate."  He  got  on  the  prettiest  camel,  the  other 
three  following,  rejoined  his  caravan,  and  found  himself 
on  the  high  road  to  his  happiness. 

He  had  advanced  scarcely  four  parasangs,  when  he  was 
stopped  by  a  deep,  full,  impetuous  torrent,  rolling  over 
rocks  whitened  by  its  foam.  Two  frightful  precipices 
rose  on  either  side,  confounding  his  vision,  and  freezing 
his  courage.  There  was  no  way  of  getting  over,  nor  of 
turning  to  the  right  or  left.  "  I  begin  to  fear,"  said  Rus- 
tan, "that  Topaz  was  right  in  dissuading  me  from  my 
journey,  and  that  I  was  a  great  fool  for  undertaking  it. 
If  lie  was  here  now,  he  might  give  me  some  good  advice. 
If  Ebony  was  here,  he  might  console  me,  and  find  out  ways 
and  means ;  but,  as  it  is,  I  am  left  to  shift  for  myself." 

His  embarrassment  was  increased  by  the  terrors  of  his 
party.  The  night  was  black,  and  they  spent  it  in  lamenta- 
tions. At  length,  fatigue  and  exhaustion  made  our  amo- 
rous traveller  fall  asleep.  He  woke  up  just  at  day-broak, 
and  beheld  a  beautiful  marble  bridge  thrown  over  the 
torrent,  from  one  shore  to  the  other. 

Then  there  were  quick  exclamations  and  shouts  of  as- 
tonishment and  of  joy.  "Is  it  possible  ?  Is  it  a  dream  ? 
What  a  prodigy  !  What  enchantment !  May  we  venture 
to  step  on  it?  "  All  the  party  threw  themselves  on  their 
knees,  got  up  again,  went  to  the  bridge,  kissed  the  earth, 
looked  up  to  heaven,  stretched  out  their  hands,  put  out 
their  feet  as  if  treading  on  eggs,  went  forward,  returned, 
and  got  into  ecstasies ;  and  Rustan  said,  "  For  this  once, 
Heaven  assists  me.  Topaz  did  not  know  what  he  was 
talking  about.  The  oracles  were  in  my  favor.  Ebony 
was  right ;  but  why  is  he  not  here  ?  " 


152  EBONY    AND    TOPAZ. 

Scarcely  had  they  crossed  the  torrent,  when,  behold! 
the  bridge  tumbled  into  the  water  with  a  frightful  noise. 
"  So  much  the  better  !  so  much  the  better  !  "  cried  Rustan. 
"  God  be  praised  !  Heaven  be  blest !  It  is  not  its  will  that 
I  should  ever  go  back  to  my  country,  where  I  should  al- 
ways have  been  a  simple  gentleman.  It  is  destined  that 
I  should  espouse  her  whom  I  love.  I  shall  be  the  Prince 
of  Cachemire,  so  that,  by  possessing  my  mistress,  I  shall 
not  possess  my  little  Candahar  marquisate.  /  shall  be 
Rustan,  and  I  shall  not  be,  because,  forsooth,  I  shall  be- 
come a  great  prince.  Here  is  the  greatest  part  of  the 
oracle  neatly  explained  in  my  favor ;  and  the  rest  will  be 
explained  in  the  same  way.  I  am  too  happy ;  but  why  is 
not  Ebony  here  by  my  side  ?  I  miss  him  a  thousand  times 
more  than  Topaz." 

With  a  joyful  heart,  he  went  on  for  several  parasangs ; 
but,  at  the  close  of  day^  a  circling  rampart  of  moun- 
tains, steep  as  a  counterscarp,  and  higher  than  the  tower 
of  Babel  would  have  been,  had  it  ever  been  finished,  bar- 
red the  progress  of  the  caravan,  who  were  seized  with 
trepidation. 

Every  one  cried  out,  "  It  is  the  will  of  Heaven  that  we 
should  perish  here.  The  bridge  was  destroyed  only  to 
take  away  all  hopes  of  our  returning  :  the  mountain  has 
been  raised  to  deprive  us  of  all  means  of  advancing.  Oh, 
Rustan!  unhappy  marquis!  We  shall  never  see  Cache- 
mire.  We  shall  never  return  to  Candahar." 

The  most  pungent  grief,  the  most  profound  depression 
of  spirits,  succeeded  in  Rustan's  soul,  to  the  immoderate 
joy  he  had  felt,  to  the  inebriation  of  hope  in  which  he  had 
indulged.  He  was  now  far  from  interpreting  the  prophe- 
cies favorable  to  himself.  "O  Heaven!  must  I  then  lose 
my  friend  Topaz?" 

As  he  pronounced  these  words,  heaving  heavy  sighs  and 
weeping  abundantly,  amidst  his  despairing  followers,  lo 
and  behold  !  the  base  of  the  mountain  opened,  and  there 


EBONY    AND    TOPAZ.  153 

was  seen  a  long  vaulted  gallery,  illuminated  with  a  hun- 
dred thousand  torches,  dazzling  their  eyes;  and  Rustan 
began  to  shout,  and  his  people  to  throw  themselves  on 
their  knees,  and  to  tumble  backwards  from  astonishment, 
and  to  cry  out,  "  A  miracle !  "  and  to  exclaim,  "  Rustan 
is  the  favorite  of  Vishnou ;  the  well-beloved  of  Brahma : 
he  will  be  the  master  of  the  world !  " — all  which  Rustan 
believed,  and  was  beside  himself,  saying,  "  Ah,  Ebony, 
my  dear  Ebony,  where  are  you  ?  Why  cannot  you  behold 
all  these  wonders?  Why  have  I  lost  you?  Sweet  Prin- 
cess of  Cachemire,  when  shall  I  see  your  beauty  again  1 " 

So  he  travelled  on,  with  his  servants,  his  elephant,  and 
camels,  under  the  vaulted  arch  in  the  mountain,  at  the 
extremity  of  which  he  entered  a  plain,  enamelled  with 
flowers  and  bordered  by  rivulets ;  and  at  the  end  of  the 
field  there  were  alleys  of  trees,  gazing  down  which  the 
sight  was  lost ;  and  at  the  end  of  these  alleys  was  a  river, 
along  which  there  were  a  thousand  pleasure-houses  with 
delicious  gardens  ;  every  where  were  heard  concerts  of 
voices  and  instruments,  and  dancing  was  seen  going  on. 
Rustan  made  haste  to  cross  one  of  the  bridges  thrown  over 
the  river.  He  asked  the  first  man  whom  he  met,  "  What 
beautiful  country  is  this  ?  " 

The  person  addressed  replied,  "  You  are  in  the  province 
of  Cachemire.  You  see  the  inhabitants  enjoying  and  dis- 
porting themselves.  We  are  celebrating  the  nuptials  of 
our  beautiful  princess,  who  is  going  to  be  married  to  Lord 
Barbabou,  to  whom  her  papa  has  promised  her.  May 
their  happiness  endure  forever  !  "  At  these  words,  Rus- 
tan fell  down  in  a  swoon  ;  and  the  Cachemirian  gentleman 
supposed  he  was  subject  to  epilepsy.  He  had  him  taken 
to  his  house,  where  he  remained  some  time,  without  com- 
ing to  his  senses.  They  brought  the  two  most  skilful 
doctors  of  the  province,  who  felt  the  sick  man's  pulse ; 
and,  when  he  came  partially  to  himself,  he  sobbed,  and 
rolled  about  his  eyes,  and  cried  out  at  intervals,  "  Topaz  1 
Topaz  !  you  were  right,  after  all." 


154  EBONY    AND    TOPAZ. 

One  of  the  doctors  observed  to  the  Cachemirian  gentle- 
man, "  I  see,  by  his  accent,  that  he  is  a  young  man  from 
Candahar,  with  whom  the  air  of  this  country  does  not 
agree.  We  must  send  him  back  again  to  his  home.  I 
see  by  his  eyes  that  he  is  crazy.  Leave  him  to  me,  and  I 
will  take  him  to  his  own  country,  and  cure  him."  The 
other  doctor  insisted  that  he  was  only  sick  with  grief; 
that  he  must  go  to  the  wedding  of  the  princess,  and  be 
made  to  dance.  While  they  were  in  consultation,  the 
patient  recovered  his  strength  ;  the  two  doctors  «  ere  dis- 
charged, and  Rustan  remained  in  company  with  his  host 
alone. 

"  My  lord,"  said  he  to  him,  "  I  beg  your  pardon  for 
fainting  away  in  your  presence,  which  I  know  is  not  at 
all  polite.  I  pray  you,  of  your  courtesy,  to  accept  my  ele- 
phant, as  a  mark  of  my  gratitude  for  the  kindness  you  have 
shown  me."  Then  he  related  to  him  all  his  adventures, 
carefully  avoiding,  however,  to  speak  of  the  object  of  his 
journey.  "  But,"  said  he,  "  in  the  name  of  Vishnou  and 
Brahma,  tell  me  who  is  this  lucky  Barbab&u,  that  is  to 
marry  the  Princess  of  Cachemire,  and  why  her  father  has 
chosen  him  for  his  son-in-law,  and  why  the  princess  has 
accepted  him  for  her  spouse?" 

"  My  lord,"  said  the  Cachemirian  to  him,  "  the  princess 
has  not  accepted  Barbabou,  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  she 
is  in  tears,  while  the  whole  province  joyously  celebrates 
her  nuptials.  She  is  shut  up  in  a  tower  of  her  palace, 
and  will  not  witness  any  of  the  rejoicings  going  on  upon 
her  account."  Rustan,  on  hearing  these  words,  felt  his 
spirits  revive.  The  brilliant  colors,  which  grief  had 
caused  to  fade,  reappeared  on  his  countenance.  "  Tell 
me,  I  pray  you,"  he  added,  "  why  the  Prince  of  Cache- 
mire  is  obstinately  bent  on  giving  his  daughter  to  a  Bar- 
babou, when  she  don't  want  to  have  him." 

"  The  case  is  this,"  replied  the  Cachemirian.  "  Do 
you  know  that  our  august  prince  lost  a  diamond  and  a 
dart,  on  which  he  set  great  store  ?  "  "  O  yes,  I  know 


EBONY    AND    TOPAZ.  155 

that  very  well,"  said  Rustan.  "  Well,  then,"  said  the 
host,  "  our  prince,  in  despair  at  getting  no  news  of  his 
jewels,  after  hunting  for  them  a  great  while  all  over  the 
world,  promised  his  daughter  to  whoever  would  bring  him 
either  of  them.  A  Lord  Barbabou  came  along,  who  had 
the  diamond  ;  and,  on  the  strength  of  it,  he  will  marry  the 
princess  to-morrow." 

Rustan  grew  pale,  stammered  out  a  parting  compliment, 
took  leave  of  his  host,  and  scoured  off,  on  his  dromedary, 
to  the  capital  city,  where  the  ceremony  was  to  be  per- 
formed. He  arrived  at  the  prince's  palace,  stated  that  he 
had  matters  of  importance  to  communicate,  and  demanded 
an  audience.  He  was  answered,  that  the  prince  was  en- 
gaged in  preparing  for  the  nuptials.  "  That's  the  very 
reason,"  said  he,  "  why  I  want  to  talk  to  him."  His  im- 
portunity was  such,  that  he  was  introduced.  "  Sire,"  said 
he,  "  may  Heaven  crown  your  days  with  glory  and  mag- 
nificence. Your  son-in-law  is  a  rascal." 

"  How?  a  rascal !  What  is  it  you  dare  to  say  ?  Is  that 
the  way  to  talk  to  a  Duke  of  Cachemire  about  the  son-in- 
law  he  has  chosen  1 "  "  Yes,  he  is  a  rascal,"  replied 
Rustan ;  "  and,  to  prove  it  to  your  highness,  here  is  your 
diamond,  which  I  have  brought  you." 

The  duke,  in  utter  consternation,  compared  the  two 
diamonds,  and,  as  he  had  little  or  no  knowledge  of  such 
matters,  could  not  tell  which  was  genuine.  "  Here  be 
two  diamonds,"  said  he,  "  and  I  have  only  one  daughter. 
See,  now,  what  a  strange  quandary  I  am  in  !  "  He  caused 
Barbabou  to  be  sent  for,  -and  asked  him  if  he  had  not 
taken  him  in.  Barbabou  swore  he  had  bought  the  dia- 
mond from  an  Armenian.  Rustan  did  not  tell  how  he 
came  by  his,  but  suggested  an  expedient,  which  was,  that, 
with  his  highness's  approbation,  he  would  forthwith  en- 
gage with  his  rival  in  single  combat.  "  It  is  not  enough," 
said  he,  "  that  your  son-in-law  gives  you  a  diamond.  He 
must  also  give  proofs  of  his  courage.  Do  you  not  think 
it  proper,  that  whoever  kills  the  other  shall  marry  the 


156  EBONY    AND    TOPAZ. 

princess?"  "  Very  proper  indeed,"  answered  the  prince. 
"  It  will  be  a  superb  spectacle  for  my  court.  Fight  one 
another  directly.  The  conqueror  shall  have  the  arms  of  the 
vanquished,  according  to  the  custom  of  Cachemire  ;  and 
he  shall  marry  my  daughter." 

The  two  suitors  descended  directly  into  the  court.  A 
magpie  and  crow  were  sitting  on  the  stairs.  The  crow 
cried,  "  Fight  away,  fight  away ; "  the  magpie,  "  Don't 
fight."  This  made  his  highness  laugh.  The  two  rivals 
scarce  regarded  it,  and  commenced  the  conflict,  all  the 
courtiers  making  a  ring  round  them.  The  princess,  keep- 
ing herself  still  shut  up  in  her  tower,  would  not  attend  the 
exhibition.  She  had  not  the  least  suspicion  that  her  lover 
was  at  Cachemire,  and  had  such  a  horror  of  Barbabou, 
that  she  would  not  see  him.  The  combat  was  despatched 
with  great  expedition.  Barbabou  was  killed  in  short  or- 
der ;  and  the  people  were  delighted,  because  he  was  ugly, 
and  Rustan  was  very  handsome.  This  is  what  almost  al- 
ways wins  the  favor  of  the  public. 

The  conqueror  put  on  the  coat  of  mail,  scarf,  and  hel- 
met of  the  vanquished,  and  marched,  followed  by  all  the 
court,  with  a  flourish  of  trumpets,  to  present  himself  under 
the  window  of  his  mistress.  All  the  people  cried  out, 
"  Beautiful  princess,  come  and  see  your  beautiful  husband, 
who  has  killed  his  rascally  rival !  "  Her  women  repeated 
these  words.  The  princess,  unluckily,  put  her  head  in 
the  window,  and,  seeing  the  armor  of  the  man  she  detest- 
ed, ran,  in  despair,  to  her  Chinese  cabinet,  and  drew  forth 
the  fatal  dart,  which  flew  to  transfix  her  dear  Rustan,  in 
spite  of  his  cuirass.  He  uttered  a  piercing  cry ;  and  in 
that  cry  the  princess  thought  she  recognized  the  voice  of 
ner  unhappy  lover. 

She  came  down,  all  dishevelled,  with  death  in  her  eyes 
and  in  her  heart.  Rustan  had  already  fallen,  covered 
with  blood,  into  the  arms  of  her  father.  She  saw  him. 
Oh,  what  a  moment !  Oh,  what  a  sight !  Oh,  what  a 
recognition,  whose  grief,  and  tenderness,  and  horror,  none 


EBONY    AND    TOPAZ.  157 

can  describe  !  She  threw  herself  upon  him,  and  embraced 
him.  "  Receive,"  she  cried,  "  the  first  and  last  kisses  of 
thy  lover  and  thy  murderess  !  "  She  plucked  the  dart  from 
the  wound,  plunged  it  into  her  own  bosom,  and  died  upon 
the  lover  she  adored.  Her  father,  terrified,  confounded, 
almost  as  dead  as  herself,  strove  in  vain  to  recall  her  to 
life.  She  was  no  more.  He  cursed  the  fatal  dart,  broke 
it  into  pieces,  threw  far  from  him  the  two  fatal  jewels,  and, 
while  they  were  making  preparations  for  his  daughter's 
funeral,  instead  of  her  marriage,  directed  them  to  carry 
into  the  palace  the  bleeding  Rustan,  who  yet  showed 
symptoms  of  life. 

They  put  him  to  bed.  On  that  death-bed,  the  first 
thing  he  saw,  standing  on  each  side,  was  Topaz  and  Eb- 
ony. His  surprise  brought  back  a  little  strength.  "  Ah, 
cruel  men,"  said  he,  "  why  did  you  forsake  me?  Perhaps 
the  princess  would  be  yet  living,  if  you  had  been  near  the 
unhappy  Rustan."  "  I  never  deserted  you  for  a  single 
moment,"  said  Topaz.  "  I  have  always  been  near  you," 
said  Ebony. 

"  Oh  !  what  is  it  you  say  ?  Why  thus  mock  me  in  my 
last  moments  ? "  said  Rustan,  with  a  languid  voice. 
"  You  may  believe  me,"  said  Topaz.  "  You  know  I  never 
approved  of  this  fatal  journey,  the  horrible  fruits  of  which 
I  foresaw.  I  was  the  eagle  who  fought  with  the  vulture, 
and  plucked  out  his  feathers.  I  was  the  elephant  who 
carried  the  baggage,  in  order  to  force  you  to  return  to 
your  own  country.  I  was  the  streaked  ass,  who  was  bear- 
ing you  home  to  your  father,  in  spite  of  yourself.  It  was 
I  who  sent  your  horses  astray.  I  made  the  torrent,  which 
stopped  your  passage  ;  I  raised  the  mountain,  which  shut 
you  out  from  your  fatal  route.  I  was  the  doctor,  who  pre- 
scribed your  native  air.  I  was  the  magpie,  who  cried  out 
to  you  not  to  fight." 

"  And  I,"  said  Ebony,  "  I  was  the  vulture  whom  the 
eagle  plucked  ;  the  rhinoceros,  who  gave  the  elephant  a 
14 


158  EfiONY    AND    TOPAZ. 

hundred  blows  with  his  horns ;  the  peasant,  who  flogged 
the  streaked  ass ;  the  merchant,  who  gave  you  the  camels 
to  proceed  with  to  your  destruction.  I  built  the  bridge, 
over  which  you  crossed.  I  dug  out  the  cavern,  through 
which  you  passed.  I  was  the  doctor,  who  advised  your 
proceeding  ;  the  crow,  who  cried  out  to  you  to  fight." 

"  Alas !  -remember  the  oracles,"  said  Topaz.  "  If  you 
go  to  the  east,  you  will  be  toward  the  west."  "  Yes,"  said 
Ebony,  "  they  bury  the  dead  here,  with  their  faces  turned 
toward  the  west.  The  oracle  was  clear  enough.  How 
came  you  not  to  understand  it  1  You  were  possessed,  and 
did  not  possess ;  for  you  had  the  diamond,  but  it  was  a 
false  one  ;  and  you  knew  nothing  about  it.  You  are  con- 
queror, and  you  are  dying.  You  are  Rustan,  and  you  are 
ceasing  to  be  so.  All  has  been  accomplished." 

While  he  thus  spoke,  four  white  wings  covered  the 
body  of  Topaz,  and  four  black  wings  that  of  Ebony. 
«'  What  do  I  behold  1 "  cried  Rustan.  Topaz  and  Ebony 
replied  together,  "  Thou  seest  thy  two  genii."  "  Oh, 
gentlemen,"  said  the  unlucky  Rustan  to  them,  "why  did 
you  meddle  with  this  business  ?  Why  two  genii  for  one 
poor  man  ?  "  "  That's  the  law,"  said  Topaz  :  "  every 
body  has  his  two  genii.  Plato  said  so  first,  and  others  have 
repeated  it  after  him.  Thou  seest  nothing  is  more  true. 
I,  who  speak  to  thee,  am  thy  good  genius ;  and  it  was  my 
business  to  watch  over  thee,  to  the  last  moment  of  thy 
life — a  trust  which  I  have  conscientiously  discharged." 

"  But,"  said  the  dying  man,  "  if  it  was  thy  duty  to  wait 
on  me,  I  am  then  of  an  order  far  superior  to  thine ;  and, 
that  being  the  case,  how  darest  thou  tell  me  that  thou  art 
my  good  genius,  when  thou  hast  suffered  me  to  be  foiled 
in  all  my  undertakings,  and  thou  now  sufferest  me  and 
my  mistress  to  die  miserably  ?  "  "  Alas  !  it  was  thy  des- 
tiny," said  Topaz.  "  What,  then,  is  a  genius  good  for? 
And  thou,  Ebony,  with  thy  four  black  wings,  thou  art,  it 
seems,  my  evil  genius  1 "  "  You  have  said  it,"  answered 


EBONY    AND    TOPAZ.  159 

Ebony.  "  But  wast  them  also  the  evil  genius  of  my  prin- 
cess?" "No;  she  had  her  own.  I  have  helped  him 
regularly."  "  Oh !  cursed  Ebony !  since  thou  art  so 
wicked,  thou  dost  not  belong  to  the  same  master  with 
Topaz.  You  were  severally  formed  by  different  princi- 
ples, one  of  which  is  good,  and  the  other  evil,  in  its  na- 
ture." "  That  does  not  follow  of  course,"  said  Ebony; 
"  but  it  is  a  very  difficult  point."  "  It  is  not  possible," 
said  the  sufferer,  "  that  a  benevolent  being  should  create 
so  baleful  a  genius."  "  Possible  or  not  possible,"  said 
Ebony,  "  the  fact  is  as  I  tell  thee."  "  Alas  !  "  said  To- 
paz, "my  poor  friend,  dost  thou  not  see  that  this  knave 
has  yet  the  malice  to  make  thee  get  into  an  argument,  to 
heat  thy  blood,  and  hasten  the  hour  of  thy  death?"  "Be- 
gone !  I  am  scarcely  better  pleased  with  thee  than  with 
him,"  said  the  sorrowful  Rustan.  "  He,  at  least,  avows 
that  he  meant  to  do  me  mischief;  and  thou,  who  pretend- 
est  to  be  my  guardian,  thou  hast  been  to  me  of  no  sort  of 
service."  "  I  am  very  sorry  for  it,"  said  the  good  genius. 
"  So  am  I,"  said  the  moribund  man.  "  There  is  some- 
thing about  this  that  I  don't  understand."  "  Nor  I  either," 
said  the  poor  good  genius.  "  I  shall  find  it  out  soon," 
said  Rustan.  "  That  is  as  it  may  be,"  said  Topaz.  Then 
the  whole  scene  vanished.  Rustan  found  himself  in  his 
father's  house,  whence  he  had  never  departed,  and  in  his 
own  bed,  where  he  had  been  asleep  for  an  hour. 

He  awoke  with  a  start,  perspiring  all  over,  and  quite 
bewildered.  He  handled  himself,  called,  cried  out,  and 
rung  for  his  valet.  Topaz  ran  to  him  in  his  nightcap, 
yawning  woundily.  "  Am  I  dead?  Am  I  in  the  land  of 
the  living  ?"  cried  Rustan.  "  The  beautiful  Princess  of 
Cachemire,  will  she  recover  ? "  "  Ts  my  lord  dream- 
ing ?  "  coolly  asked  Topaz.  "  Ah  !  "  said  Rustan,  "  what 
has  become,  then,  of  that  barbarous  Ebony,  with  his  four 
black  wings?  It  was  he  who  made  me  die  by  a  death  so 
cruel."  "  My  lord,  I  left  him  snoring  up  aloft.  Shall  he 


160  EBONY    AND    TOPAZ. 

be  told  to  come  down  ?  "  "  The  scoundrel !  it  is  now  six 
months  that  he  has  been  persecuting  me.  It  was  he  who 
took  me  to  that  fatal  fair  at  Cabul.  It  was  he  who  jock- 
eyed me  out  of  the  diamond  which  the  princess  gave  me. 
He  was  the  only  cause  of  my  journey,  of  the  death  of  my 
princess,  and  of  the  wound  with  the  dart,  by  which  I  am 
dying  in  the  flower  of  my  youth." 

"  Console  yourself,"  said  Topaz  ;  "  you  have  never  been 
to  Cabul.  There  is  no  Princess  of  Cachemire.  The 
prince  has  only  two  sons,  who  are  now  at  college.  You 
never  had  any  diamond.  The  princess  can't  be  dead, 
because  she  never  was  born ;  and  you  are  in  charming 
good  health." 

"  How  ?  Is  it  not  true  that  you  attended  my  death-bed 
in  the  palace  of  the  Prince  of  Cachemire  ?  Did  you  not 
confess,  that,  to  protect  me  from  so  many  evils,  you  had 
been  an  eagle,  elephant,  streaked  ass,  doctor,  and  mag- 
pie ?  "  "  My  lord,  you  have  dreamed  all  that.  Our  ideas 
are  no  more  under  our  own  control  when  asleep  than 
when  awake.  It  has  pleased  Heaven  that  this  train  of 
ideas  should  pass  through  your  head,  in  order,  it  should 
seem,  to  give  you  a  lesson  which  may  be  profitable." 

"  Thou  art  jesting  with  me,"  quoth  Rustan.  "  How 
long  have  I  been  asleep?  "  "  My  lord,  you  have  not  been 
asleep  more  than  one  hour."  "  Why,  you  most  abomina- 
ble of  logicians,  how  do  you  suppose  that  in  an  hour's 
time  I  should  have  been  at  the  fair  at  Cabul  six  months 
ago.  have  gotten  back,  made  a  journey  to  Cachemire,  and 
all  three  of  us  be  dead,  Barbabou,  the  princess,  and  I?" 
"  My  lord,  there  is  nothing  more  easy  and  common  ;  and 
you  might  actually  have  made  the  tour  of  the  world,  and 
had  many  more  adventures,  in  much  less  time.  Is  it  not 
true  that  you  can  read  in  one  hour  the  abridgment  of  the 
Persian  history,  written  by  Zoroaster  ?  Yet  that  abridg- 
ment comprises  eight  hundred  thousand  years.  All  the 
events  it  records  pass  before  your  eyes,  one  after  the  other, 


EBONY    AND    TOPAZ.  161 

in  one  hour.  Now,  you  will  grant  me,  that  it  is  as  easy 
for  Brahma  to  compress  them  all  within  the  compass  of 
an  hour,  as  to  extend  them  over  a  period  of  eight  hundred 
thousand  years.  It  is  an  instance  exactly  in  point.  Im- 
agine to  yourself  that  time  revolves  on  a  wheel,  whose 
diameter  is  infinite.  Within  this  immense  wheel  are  an 
innumerable  multitude  of  wheels,  one  within  another. 
That  which  is  central  is  imperceptible,  and  makes  an  in- 
finite number  of  revolutions,  precisely  in  the  same  time 
that  the  great  wheel  performs  one.  It  is  obvious,  that  all 
events,  from  the  creation  of  the  world  to  its  end,  might 
happen,  successively,  in  less  time  than  the  hundred  thou- 
sandth part  of  a  second.  And  we  may  even  say  that  such 
is  the  fact." 

"  I  don't  understand  a  word  of  that,"  said  Rustan. 

"  If  you  please,"  said  Topaz,  "I  have  a  parrot,  who 
will  make  you  comprehend  it  very  easily.  He  was  born 
some  time  before  the  deluge,  was  in  the  ark,  and  has  seen 
a  great  deal.  For  all  that,  he  is  only  a  year  and  a  half 
old.  He  will  tell  you  his  story,  which  is  very  interesting." 

"  Go,  instantly,  and  find  your  parrot,"  said  Rustan  : 
'*  he  will  amuse  me  till  I  can  fall  asleep  again." 

"  He  is  with  my  sister,  the  nun,"  said  Topaz.  "  I  will 
go  and  find  him.  You  will  be  pleased  with  him.  His 
memory  is  faithful.  He  tells  his  story  with  simplicity, 
without  trying  to  show  his  wit  all  the  while,  and  without 
making  fine  sentences." 

"All  the  better,"  said  Rustan  ;  "  that  is  just  the  way  in 
which  I  like  to  hear  stories."  The  parrot  was  brought, 
who  spoke  to  him  as  follows : 


14 


162  THE    THREE    ADVICES. 


THE   THREE   ADVICES. 

THERE  once  came,  what  of  late  happened  so  often  in 
Ireland,  a  hard  year.  When  the  crops  failed,  there  was 
beggary  and  misfortune  from  one  end  of  the  island  to 
the  other.  At  that  time,  a  great  many  poor  people 
had  to  quit  the  country,  from  want  of  employment,  and 
through  the  high  price  of  provisions.  Among  others, 
John  Carson  was  under  the  necessity  of  going  over  to 
England,  to  try  if  he  could  get  work,  and  of  leaving 
his  wife  and  family  behind  him,  begging  for  a  bite  and  a 
sup  up  and  down,  and  trusting  to  the  charity  of  good 
Christians. 

John  was  a  smart  young  fellow,  handy  at  any  work, 
from  the  hay-field  to  the  stable,  and  willing  to  earn  the 
bread  he  ate ;  and  he  was  soon  engaged  by  a  gentleman. 
The  English  are  mighty  strict  upon  Irish  servants:  he  was 
to  have  twelve  guineas  a  year  wages ;  but  the  money  was 
not  to  be  paid  until  the  end  of  the  year,  and  he  was  to 
forfeit  the  entire  twelve  guineas  in  the  lump,  if  he  miscon- 
ducted himself,  in  any  way,  within  the  twelve  months. 
John  Carson  was,  to  be  sure,  upon  his  best  behavior,  and 
conducted  himself,  in  every  particular,  so  well,  for  the 
whole  time,  there  was  no  faulting  him  late  or  early;  and 
the  wages  were  fairly  his. 

The  term  of  his  agreement  being  expired,  he  determin- 
ed on  returning  home,  notwithstanding  his  master,  who 
had  a  great  regard  for  him,  pressed  him  to  remain,  and 
asked  him  if  he  had  any  reason  to  be  dissatisfied  with  his 
treatment. 

"No  reason  in  life,  sir,"  said  John:  "you've  been  a 
good  master  and  a  kind  master  to  me :  the  Lord  spare 
you  over  your  family :  but  I  left  a  wife  with  two  small 
children  of  my  own  at  home,  after  me  in  Irelniu1 ;  and 


THE    THREE    ADVICES.  163 

your  honor  would  never  wish  to  keep  me  from  them 
entirely — the  wife  and  the  children  !  " 

"Well,  John,"  said  the  gentleman,  "you  have  earned 
your  twelve  guineas;  and  you  have  been,  in  every  respect, 
so  good  a  servant,  that,  if  you  agree,  I  intend  giving  you 
what  is  worth  the  twelve  guineas  ten  times  over,  in  place 
of  your  wages.  But  you  shall  have  your  choice :  will  you 
take  what  I  offer,  on  my  word?" 

John  saw  no  reason  to  think  that  his  master  was  jest- 
ing with  him,  or  was  insincere  in  making  the  offer,  and, 
therefore,  after  slight  consideration,  told  him  that  he 
agreed  to  take,  as  his  wages,  whatever  he  would  advise, 
whether  it  was  the  twelve  guineas  or  not. 

"  Then  listen  attentively  to  my  words,"  said  the  gen- 
tleman. 

"  First,  I  would  teach  you  this — '  Never  to  take  a  by- 
road, when  you  have  the  high-way.' 

"  Secondly,  '  Take  heed  not  to  lodge  in  the  house 
where  an  old  man  is  married  to  a  young  woman.' 

"  And  thirdly,  '  Remember  that  honesty  is  the  best 
policy.' 

"  These  are  the  three  advices  I  would  pay  you  with ; 
and  they  are,  in  value,  far  beyond  any  gold :  however, 
here  is  a  guinea  for  your  travelling  charges,  and  two  cakes, 
one  of  which  you  must  give  to  your  wife,  and  the  other 
you  must  not  eat  yourself  until  you  have  done  so;  and  I 
charge  you  to  be  careful  of  them." 

It  was  not  without  some  reluctance  on  the  part  of  John 
Carson,  that  he  was  brought  to  accept  mere  words  for 
wages,  or  could  be  persuaded  that  they  were  more  precious 
than  golden  guineas.  His  faith  in  his  master  was,  how- 
ever, so  strong,  that  he  at  length  became  satisfied. 

John  set  out  for  Ireland  the  next  morning  early;  but 
he  had  not  proceeded  far,  before  he  overtook  two  pedlers, 
who  were  travelling  the  same  way.  He  entered  into  con- 
versation with  them,  and  found  them  a  pair  of  merry  fel- 


164  THE    THREE    ADVICES. 

lows,  who  proved  excellent  company  on  the  road.  Now,  it 
happened,  towards  the  end  of  their  day's  journey,  when 
they  were  all  tired  with  walking,  that  they  came  to  a  wood, 
through  which  there  was  a  path  that  shortened  the  distance 
to  the  town  they  were  going  towards,  by  two  miles.  The 
pedlers  advised  John  to  go  with  them  through  the  wood ; 
but  he  refused  to  leave  the  highway,  telling  them,  at  the 
same  time,  he  would  meet  them  again  at  a  certain  house  in 
the  town,  where  travellers  put  up.  John  was  willing  to  try 
the  worth  of  the  advice  which  his  master  had  given  him ; 
and  he  arrived  in  safety,  and  took  up  his  quarters  at  the 
appointed  place.  While  he  was  eating  his  supper,  an  old 
man  came  hobbling  into  the  kitchen,  and  gave  orders 
about  different  matters  there,  and  then  went  out  again. 
John  would  have  taken  no  particular  notice  of  this ;  but, 
immediately  after,  a  young  woman — young  enough  to  be 
the  old  man's  daughter — came  in,  and  gave  orders  exactly 
the  contrary  of  what  the  old  man  had  given,  calling  him, 
at  the  same  time,  a  great  many  hard  names,  such  as  old 
fool,  and  old  dotard,  and  so  on. 

When  she  was  gone,  John  inquired  who  the  old  man 
was.  "He  is  the  landlord,"  said  the  servant;  "and, 
Heaven  help  him !  a  dog's  life  he  has  led  since  he  married 
his  last  wife." 

"What,"  said  John  with  surprise,  "is  that  young 
woman  the  landlord's  wife  ?  I  see  I  must  not  remain  in 
this  house  to-night ; "  and,  tired  as  he  was,  he  got  up  to 
leave  it,  but  went  no  farther  than  the  door,  before  he  met 
the  two  pedlers,  all  cut  and  bleeding,  coming  in ;  for  they 
had  been  robbed  and  almost  murdered  in  the  wood.  John 
was  very  sorry  to  see  them  in  that  condition,  and  advised 
them  not  to  lodge  in  the  house,  telling  them,  with  a  sig- 
nificant nod,  that  all  was  not  right  there ;  but  the  poor 
pedlers  were  so  weary  and  so  bruised,  that  they  would 
stop  where  they  were,  and  disregarded  the  advice. 

Rather  than  remain  in  the  house,  John  retired  to  the 


THE    THREE    ADVICES.  165 

stable,  and  laid  himself  down  upon  a  bundle  of  straw, 
where  he  slept  soundly  for  some  time.  About  the  middle  of 
the  night,  he  heard  two  persons  come  into  the  stable,  and, 
on  listening  to  their  conversation,  discovered  that  it  was 
the  landlady  and  a  man,  laying  a  plan  how  to  murder  her 
husband.  In  the  morning,  John  renewed  his  journey  ;  but, 
at  the  next  town  he  came  to,  he  was  told  that  the  landlord 
in  the  town  he  had  left  had  been  murdered,  and  that  two 
pedlers,  whose  clothes  were  found  all  covered  with  blood, 
had  been  taken  up  for  the  crime,  and  were  going  to  be 
hanged.  John,  without  mentioning  to  any  person  what  he 
had  overheard,  determined  to  save  the  pedlers,  if  possible, 
and  so  returned,  to  attend  their  trial. 

On  going  into  the  court,  he  saw  the  two  men  at  the  bar ; 
and  the  young  woman  and  the  man,  whose  voices  he  had 
heard  in  the  stable,  swearing  their  innocent  lives  away. 
But  the  judge  allowed  him  to  give  his  evidence,  and  he 
told  every  particular  of  what  had  occurred.  The  man 
and  the  young  woman  instantly  confessed  their  guilt:  the 
poor  pedlers  were  at  once  acquitted ;  and  the  judge  order- 
ed a  large  reward  to  be  paid  to  John  Carson,  as,  through 
his  means,  the  real  murderers  were  brought  to  justice. 

John  now  proceeded  towards  home,  fully  convinced  of 
the  value  of  two  of  the  advices  which  his  master  had  given 
him.  On  arriving  at  his  cabin,  he  found  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren rejoicing  over  a  purse  full  of  gold,  which  the  eldest 
boy  had  picked  up  on  the  road  that  morning.  Whilst  he 
was  away,  they  had  endured  all  the  miseries  which  the 
wretched  families  of  those  who  go  over  to  seek  work  in 
England  are  exposed  to.  With  precarious  food,  without 
a  bed  to  lie  down  on,  or  a  roof  to  shelter  them,  they  had 
wandered  through  the  country,  seeking  food  from  door  to 
door  of  a  starving  population,  and,  when  a  single  potato 
was  bestowed,  showering  down  blessings  and  thanks  on 
the  giver,  not  in  the  set  phrases  of  the  mendicant,  but  in  a 
burst  of  eloquence  too  fervid  not  to  gush  direct  from  the 


166  THE    THREE   ADVICES. 

heart.  Those  only  who  have  seen  a  family  of  such  beg- 
gars as  I  describe,  can  fancy  the  joy  with  which  the  poor 
woman  welcomed  her  husband  back,  and  told  him  of  the 
purse  full  of  gold. 

"  And  where  did  Mick — ma  boJiil  — find  it?  "  inquired 
John  Carson. 

"  It  was  the  young  squire,  for  certain,  who  dropped  it," 
said  his  wife ;  "for  he  rode  down  the  road  this  morning, 
and  was  leaping  his  horse  in  the  very  gap  where  Micky 
picked  it  up ;  but  sure,  John,  he  has  money  enough  be- 
sides ;  and  never  the  halfpenny  have  I  to  buy  my  poor 
childer  a  bit  to  eat  this  blessed  night." 

"Never  mind  that,"  said  John;  "do  as  I  bid  you,  and 
take  up  the  purse  at  once  to  the  big  house,  and  ask  for 
the  young  squire.  I  have  too  cakes  which  I  brought  every 
step  of  the  way  with  me  from  England,  and  they  will  do 
for  the  children's  supper.  I  ought  surely  to  remember,  as 
good  right  I  have,  what  my  master  told  me  for  my  twelve 
months'  wages,  seeing  I  never,  as  yet,  found  what  he  said 
to  be  wrong." 

"And  what  did  he  say?"  inquired  his  wife. 

"  That  honesty  is  the  best  policy,"  answered  John. 

"  'Tis  very  well,  and  'tis  mighty  easy  for  them  to  say  so, 
that  have  never  been  sore  tempted,  by  distress  and  famine, 
to  say  otherwise;  but  your  bidding  is  enough  for  me, 
John." 

Straightway  she  went  to  the  big  house,  and  inquired  for 
the  young  squire ;  but  she  was  denied  the  liberty  to  speak 
to  him. 

"  You  must  tell  me  your  business,  honest  woman,"  said 
a  servant,  with  a  head  all  powdered  and  frizzled  like  a 
cauliflower,  and  who  had  on  a  coat  covered  with  gold  and 
silver  lace,  and  buttons,  and  every  thing  in  the  world. 

" If  you  knew  but   all,"  said  she,  "I  am  an  honest 


THE    THREE    ADVICES.  167 

woman ,  for  I've  brought  a  purse  full  of  gold  to  the  young 
master,  that  my  little  boy  picked  up  by  the  road-side ;  for 
surely  it  is  his,  as  nobody  else  could  have  so  much 
money." 

"  Let  me  see  it,"  said  the  servant.  "  Ay,  it's  all  right. 
I'll  take  care  of  it.  You  need  not  trouble  yourself  any 
more  about  the  matter ; "  and  so  saying,  he  slapped  the 
door  in  her  face.  When  she  returned,  her  husband  pro- 
duced the  two  cakes  which  his  master  gave  him  on  part- 
ing; and,  breaking  one  to  divide  between  his  children, 
how  was  he  astonished  at  finding  six  golden  guineas  in  it ! 
and  when  he  took  the  other  and  broke  it,  he  found  as 
many  more.  He  then  remembered  the  words  of  his  gen- 
erous master,  who  desired  him  to  give  one  of  the  cakes  to 
his  wife,  and  not  to  eat  the  other  himself  until  that  time ; 
and  this  was  the  way  his  master  took  to  conceal  his  wages, 
lest  he  should  have  been  robbed,  or  have  lost  the  money 
on  the  road. 

The  following  day,  as  John  was  standing  near  his 
cabin  door,  and  turning  over  in  his  own  mind  what  he 
should  do  with  his  money,  the  young  squire  came  riding 
down  the  road.  John  pulled  off  his  hat, — for  he  had  not 
forgot  his  manners  through  the  means  of  his  travelling  «to 
foreign  parts, — and  then  made  so  bold  as  to  inquire  if  his 
honor  had  got  the  purse  he  lost. 

"  Why,  it  is  true  enough,  my  good  fellow,"  said  the 
squire,  "I  did  lose  my  purse  yesterday,  and  I  hope  you 
were  lucky  enough  to  find  it ;  for,  if  that  is  your  cabin, 
you  seem  to  be  very  poor,  and  shall  keep  it  as  a  reward 
for  your  honesty." 

"  Then  the  servant  up  at  the  big  house  never  gave  it  to 
your  honor  last  night,  after  taking  it  from  Nance, — she's 
my  wife,  your  honor, — and  telling  her  it  was  all  right?" 

"  O,  I  must  look  into  this  business,"  said  the  squire. 

"Did  you  say  your  wife,  my  poor  man,  gave  my  purse 
to  a  servant  ?  To  what  servant  ?  " 


168  THE    THREE    ADVICES. 

"  I  can't  tell  his  name  rightly,"  said  John,  "  because  I 
don't  know  it;  but  never  trust  Nance's  eyes  again,  if  she 
can't  point  him  out  to  your  honor,  if  so  your  honor  is  de- 
sirous of  knowing." 

"Then  do  you  and  Nance,  as  you  call  her,  come  up  to 
the  hall  this  evening,  and  I'll  inquire  into  the  matter,  I 
promise  you."  So  saying,  the  squire  rode  off. 

John  and  his  wife  went  up,  accordingly,  in  the  evening, 
and  he  gave  a  small  rap,  with  the  big  knocker,  at  the  great 
door.  The  door  was  opened  by  a  grand  servant,  who, 
without  hearing  what  the  poor  people  had  to  say,  exclaim- 
ed, "O  go! — go! — what  business  can  you  have  here?'' 
and  shut  the  door. 

John's  wife  burst  out  crying — "  There,"  said  she,  sob- 
bing as  if  her  heart  would  break,  "I  knew  that  would  be 
the  end  of  it." 

But  John  had  not  been  in  merry  England  merely  to  get 
his  twelve  guineas  packed  in  two  cakes.  "  No,"  said  he, 
firmly,  "  right  is  right;  and  I'll  see  the  end  of  it."  So  he 
sat  himself  down  on  the  step  of  the  door,  determined  not 
to  go  until  he  saw  the  young  squire;  and,  as  it  happened, 
it  was  not  long  before  he  came  out. 

"I  have  been  expecting  you  some  time,  John,"  said  he; 
"come  in,  and  bring  your  wife  in;"  and  he  made  them  go 
before  him  into  the  house.  Immediately,  he  directed  all 
the  servants  to  come  up  stairs;  and  such  an  army  of  them 
as  there  was!  It  was  a  real  sight  to  see  them. 

"  Which  of  you,"  said  the  young  squire,  without  making 
further  words,  "  which  of  you  all  did  this  honest  woman 
give  my  purse  to?"  But  there  was  no  answer.  "Well,  I 
suppose  she  must  be  mistaken,  unless  she  can  tell  herself." 

John's  wife  at  once  pointed  her  finger  towards  the  head 
footman.  "There  he  is,"  said  she,  "  if  all  the  world  were 
to  the  fore — clargyman — magistrate — judge — jury  and  all 
— there  he  is,  and  I'm  ready  to  take  my  Bible  oath  to  him; 
— there  he  is  who  told  me  it  was  all  right  when  he  took 


THE    CITY    OF    THE    DEMONS.  169 

the  purse,  and  slararned  the  door  in  my  face,  without  as 
much  as  Thank  ye  for  it." 

The  conscious  footman  turned  pale. 

"What  is  this  I  hear?"  said  his  master.  "  If  this 
woman  gave  you  my  purse,  William,  why  did  you  not  give 
it  to  me  ?  " 

The  servant  stammered  out  a  denial;  but  his  master  in- 
sisted on  his  being  searched,  and  the  purse  was  found  in 
his  pocket. 

"  John,"  said  the  gentleman,  turning  round,  "you 
shall  be  no  loser  by  this  affair.  Here  are  ten  guineas  for 
you.  Go  home  now ;  but  I  will  not  forget  your  wife's 
honesty." 

Within  a  month,  John  Carson  was  settled  in  a  nice, 
new-slated  house,  which  the  squire  had  furnished  and 
made  ready  for  him.  What  with  his  wages,  the  reward 
he  got  from  the  judge,  and  the  ten  guineas  for  returning 
the  purse,  he  was  well  to  do  in  the  world,  and  was  soon 
able  to  stock  a  small  farm,  where  he  lived  respected  all 
his  days.  On  his  death-bed,  he  gave  his  children  the  very 
three  advices  which  his  master  had  given  him  on  parting : 

Never  to  take  a  by-road,  when  they  could  follow  the 
highway ; 

Never  to  lodge  in  the  house  where  an  old  man  was 
married  to  a  young  woman  ; 

And,  above  all,  to  remember  that  honesty  is  the  best 
policy. 


THE   CITY   OF  THE   DEMONS. 

IN   days  of  yore,  there   lived,  in  the   flourishing  city 
of  Cairo,  a  Hebrew  rabbi,  by  name  Jochonan,  who  was 
15 


170  THE    CITY    OF    THE    DEMONS. 

the  most  learned  of  his  nation.  His  fame  went  over  the 
East ;  and  the  most  distant  people  sent  their  young  men  to 
imbibe  wisdom  from  his  lips.  He  was  deeply  skilled  in 
the  traditions  of  the  fathers;  and  his  word  on  a  disputed 
point  was  decisive.  He  was  pious,  just,  temperate,  and 
strict;  but  he  had  one  vice — a  love  of  gold  had  seized 
upon  his  heart,  and  he  opened  not  his  hand  to  the  poor. 
Yet  he  was  wealthy  above  most,  his  wisdom  being  to  him 
the  source  of  riches.  The  Hebrews  of  the  city  were  griev- 
ed at  this  blemish  on  the  wisest  of  their  people ;  but,  though 
the  elders  of  the  tribes  continued  to  reverence  him  for  his 
fame,  the  women  and  children  of  Cairo  called  him  by  no 
other  name  than  that  of  Rabbi  Jochonan  the  miser. 

None  knew,  so  well  as  he,  the  ceremonies  necessary  for 
initiation  into  the  religion  of  Moses  ;  and,  consequently, 
the  exercise  of  those  solemn  offices  was  to  him  another 
source  of  gain.  One  day,  as  he  walked  in  the  fields  about 
Cairo,  conversing  with  a  youth  on  the  interpretation  of 
the  law,  it  so  happened,  that  the  angel  of  death  smote  the 
young  man  suddenly,  and  he  fell  dead  before  the  feet  of 
the  rabbi,  even  while  he  was  yet  speaking.  When  the 
rabbi  found  that  the  youth  was  dead,  he  rent  his  gar- 
ments, and  glorified  the  Lord.  But  his  heart  was  touch- 
ed, and  the  thoughts  of  death  troubled  him  in  the  visions 
of  the  night.  He  felt  uneasy  when  he  reflected  on  his 
hardness  to  the  poor ;  and  he  said,  "  Blessed  be  the  name 
of  the  Lord !  The  first  good  thing  that  I  am  asked  to  do, 
in  that  holy  name,  will  I  perform."  But  he  sighed,  for 
he  feared  that  some  one  might  ask  of  him  a  portion  of 
his  gold. 

While  yet  he  thought  upon  these  things,  there  came  a 
loud  cry  at  his  gate. 

*'  Awake,  thou  sleeper  !  "  said  the  voice,  "  awake  !  A 
child  is  in  danger  of  death,  and  the  mother  hath  sent  me 
for  thee,  that  thou  mayest  do  thine  office." 

"  The   night   is   dark    and   gloomy,"    said   the   rabbi, 


THE    CITY    OF    THE    DEMONS.  171 

coming  to  his  casement,  "  and  mine  age  is  great.  Are 
there  not  younger  men  than  I  in  Cairo?" 

"  For  thee  only,  Rabbi  Jochonan,  whom  some  call  the 
wise,  but  whom  others  call  Rabbi  Jochonan  the  miser, 
was  I  sent.  Here  is  gold,"  said  he,  taking  out  a  purse  of 
sequins.  "  I  want  not  thy  labor  for  nothing.  I  adjure 
thee  to  come,  in  the  name  of  the  living  God." 

So  the  rabbi  thought  upon  the  vow  he  had  just  made; 
and  he  groaned  in  spirit,  for  the  purse  sounded  heavy. 

"  As  thou  hast  adjured  me  by  that  name,  I  go  with 
thee,"  said  he  to  the  man ;  "  but  I  hope  the  distance  is  not 
far.  Put  up  thy  gold." 

"  The  place  is  at  hand,"  said  the  stranger,  who  was  a 
gallant  youth,  in  magnificent  attire.  "  Be  speedy,  for 
time  presses." 

Jochonan  arose,  dressed  himself,  and  accompanied  the 
stranger,  after  having  carefully  locked  up  all  the  doors  of 
his  house,  and  deposited  his  keys  in  a  secret  place — at 
which  the  stranger  smiled. 

"  I  never  remember,"  said  the  rabbi,  "  so  dark  a  night. 
Be  thou  to  me  as  a  guide,  for  I  can  hardly  see  the  way." 

"  I  know  it  well,"  replied  the  stranger  with  a  sigh :  "it 
is  a  way  much  frequented,  and  travelled  hourly  by  many. 
Lean  upon  mine  arm,  and  fear  not." 

They  journeyed  on ;  and,  though  the  darkness  was 
great,  yet  the  rabbi  could  see,  when  it  occasionally  bright- 
ened, that  he  was  in  a  place  strange  to  him.  "  I  thought," 
said  he,  "  I  knew  all  the  country  for  leagues  about  Cairo; 
yet  I  know  not  where  I  am.  I  hope,  young  man,"  said 
he  to  his  companion,  "  that  thou  hast  not  missed  the  way." 
And  his  heart  misgave  him. 

"  Fear  not,"  returned  the  stranger.  "  Your  journey  is 
even  now  done."  And,  as  he  spoke,  the  feet  of  the  rabbi 
slipped  from  under  him,  and  he  rolled  down  a  great  height. 
When  he  recovered,  he  found  that  his  companion  had 
fallen  also,  and  stood  by  his  side. 


172  THE    CITY    OF    THE    DEMONS. 

"  Nay,  young  man,"  said  the  rabbi,  "  if  thus  thou 
sportest  with  the  gray  hairs  of  age,  thy  days  are  number- 
ed. Wo  unto  him  who  insults  the  hoary  head !  " 

The  stranger  made  an  excuse,  and  they  journeyed  on 
some  little  further  in  silence.  The  darkness  grew  less ; 
and  the  astonished  rabbi,  lifting  up  his  eyes,  found  that 
they  had  come  to  the  gates  of  a  city  which  he  had  never 
before  seen.  Yet  he  knew  all  the  cities  of  the  land  of 
Egypt,  and  he  had  walked  but  half  an  hour  from  his 
dwelling  in  Cairo.  So  he  knew  not  what  to  think,  but 
followed  the  man  with  trembling. 

They  soon  entered  the  gates  of  the  city,  which  was 
lighted  up  as  if  there  were  a  festival  in  every  house.  The 
streets  were  full  of  revellers ;  and  nothing  but  a  sound  of 
joy  could  be  heard.  But  when  Jochonan  looked  upon 
their  faces,  they  were  the  faces  of  men  pained  within ; 
and  he  saw,  by  the  marks  they  bore,  that  they  were 
Mazikin.  He  was  terrified  in  his  soul ;  and,  by  the 
light  of  the  torches,  he  looked  also  upon  the  face  of  his 
companion,  and,  behold!  he  saw  upon  him,  too,  the  mark 
that  showed  him  to  be  a  demon.  The  rabbi  feared  ex- 
cessively ;  almost  to  fainting ;  but  he  thought  it  better  to 
be  silent ;  and  sadly  he  followed  his  guide,  Vho  brought 
him  to  a  splendid  house,  in  the  most  magnificent  quarter 
of  the  city. 

"Enter  here,"  said  the  demon  to  Jochonan,  "for  this 
house  is  mine.  The  lady  and  the  child  are  in  the  upper 
chamber."  And,  accordingly,  the  sorrowful  rabbi  as- 
cended the  stair  to  find  them. 

The  lady,  whose  dazzling  beauty  was  shrouded  by 
melancholy  beyond  hope,  lay  in  bed :  the  child,  in  rich 
raiment,  slumbered  on  the  lap  of  the  nurse,  by  her  side. 

"  I  have  brought  to  thee,  light  of  my  eyes !  "  said  the 
demon,  "  Rebecca,  beloved  of  my  soul !  I  have  brought 


THE    CITY    OF    THE    DEMONS.  173 

thee  Rabbi  Jochonan  the  wise,  whom  thou  didst  desire. 
Let  him,  then,  speedily  begin  his  office.  I  shall  fetch  all 
things  necessary ;  for  he  is  in  haste  to  depart." 

He  smiled  bitterly  as  he  said  these  words,  looking  at  the 
rabbi,  and  left  the  room,  followed  by  the  nurse. 

When  Jochonan  and  the  lady  were  alone,  she  turned  in 
the  bed  towards  him,  and  said — 

"Unhappy  man  that  thou  art!  knowest  thou  where 
thou  hast  been  brought?  " 

"  I  do,"  said  he,  with  a  heavy  groan ;  "  I  know  that  I 
am  in  a  city  of  the  Mazikin." 

"Know  then,  further,"  said  she, — and  the  tears  gushed 
from  eyes  brighter  than  the  diamond, — "  know  then,  fur- 
ther, that  no  one  is  ever  brought  here,  unless  he  hath 
sinned  before  the  Lord.  What  my  sin  hath  been  imports 
not  to  thee  ;  and  I  seek  cot  to  know  thine.  But  here 
thou  remainest  forever — lost,  even  as  I  am  lost."  And 
she  wept  again. 

The  rabbi  dashed  his  turban  on  the  ground,  and,  tear- 
ing his  hair,  exclaimed,  "  Wo  is  me !  Who  art  thou, 
woman,  that  speakest  to  me  thus?" 

"I  am  a  Hebrew  woman,"  said  she,  "the  daughter  of 
a  doctor  of  the  laws,  in  the  city  of  Bagdad ;  and,  being 
brought  hither,  it  matters  not  how,  I  am  married  to  a 
prince  among  the  Mazikin,  even  him  who  was  sent  for 
thee.  And  that  child,  whom  thou  sawest,  is  our  first- 
born ;  and  I  could  not  bear  the  thought  that  the  soul  of 
our  innocent  babe  should  perish.  I  therefore  besought 
my  husband  to  try  to  bring  hither  a  priest,  that  the  law  of 
Moses  (blessed  be  his  memory !)  should  be  done ;  and  thy 
fame,  which  has  spread  to  Bagdad,  and  lands  farther  to- 
wards the  rising  of  the  sun,  made  me- think  of  thee.  Now, 
my  husband,  though  great  among  the  Mazikin,  is  more 
just  than  the  other  demons;  and  he  loves  me,  whom  he 
hath  ruined,  with  a  love  of  despair.  So  he  said,  that  the 
name  of  Jochonan  the  wise  was  familiar  unto  him,  and 
15* 


174  THE    CITY    OF    THE    DEMONS. 

that  he  knew  thou  wouldst  not  be  able  to  refuse.  What 
thou  hast  done,  to  give  him  power  over  thee,  is  known  to 
thyself." 

"  I  swear,  before  Heaven,"  said  the  rabbi,  "that  I  have 
ever  diligently  kept  the  law,  and  walked  steadfastly  ac- 
cording to  the  traditions  of  our  fathers,  from  the  day  of 
my  youth  upward.  I  have  wronged  no  man  in  word  or 
deed;  and  I  have  daily  worshipped  the  Lord,  minutely 
performing  all  the  ceremonies  thereto  needful." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  lady,  "  all  this  thou  mightest  have 
done,  and  more,  and  yet  be  in  the  power  of  the  demons. 
But  time  passes ;  for  I  hear  the  foot  of  my  husband  mount- 
ing the  stair.  There  is  one  chance  of  thine  escape." 

"  What  is  that,  O  lady  of  beauty  !  "  said  the  agonized 
rabbi. 

"  Eat  not,  drink  not,  nor  take  fee  or  reward  while  here ; 
and  as  long  as  thou  canst  do  thus,  the  Mazikin  have  no 
power  over  thee,  dead  or  alive.  Have  courage,  and  per- 
severe." 

As  she  ceased  from  speaking,  her  husband  entered  the 
room,  followed  by  the  nurse,  who  bore  all  things  requisite 
for  the  ministration  of  the  rabbi.  With  a  heavy  heart,  he 
performed  his  duty;  and  the  child  was  numbered  among 
the  faithful.  But  when,  as  usual,  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
ceremony,  the  wine  was  handed  round  to  be  tasted  by  the 
child,  the  mother,  and  the  rabbi,  he  refused  it,  when  it 
came  to  him,  saying, 

"  Spare  me,  my  lord,  for  I  have  made  a  vow  that  I  fast 
this  day;  and  I  will  eat  not,  neither  will  I  drink." 

"  Be  it  as  thou  pleasest,"  said  the  demon  :  "  I  will  not 
that  thou  shouldest  break  thy  vow."  And  he  laughed 
aloud. 

So  the  poor  rabbi  was  taken  into  a  chamber,  looking 
into  a  garden,  where  he  passed  the  remainder  of  the  night 
and  the  day,  weeping,  and  praying  to  the  Lord,  that  he 
would  deliver  him  from  the  city  of  demons.  But  when 


THE    CITY    OF    THE    DEMONS.  175 

the  twelfth  hour  came,  and  the  sun  was  set,  the  prince  of 
the  Mazikin  came  again  unto  him,  and  said, 

"  Eat  now,  I  pray  thee,  for  the  day  of  thy  vow  is  past." 
And  he  set  meat  before  him. 

"  Pardon  again  thy  servant,  my  lord,"  said  Jochonan, 
"  in  this  thing.  I  have  another  vow  for  this  day  also.  I 
pray  thee  be  not  angry  with  thy  servant." 

"I  am  not  angry,"  said  the  demon:  "be  it  as  thou 
pleasest :  I  respect  thy  vow."  And  he  laughed  louder 
than  before. 

So  the  rabbi  sat  another  day  in  his  chamber  by  the  gar- 
den, weeping  and  praying.  And  when  the  sun  had  gone 
behind  the  hills,  the  prince  of  the  Mazikin  again  stood 
before  him,  and  said, 

"  Eat  now,  for  thou  must  be  an  hungered.  It  was  a 
sore  vow  of  thine."  And  he  offered  him  daintier  meats. 

And  Jochonan  felt  a  strong  desire  to  eat ;  but  he  prayed 
inwardly  to  the  Lord,  and  the  temptation  passed,  and  he 
answered, 

"  Excuse  thy  servant  yet  a  third  time,  my  lord,  that  I 
eat  not.  I  have  renewed  my  vow." 

"  Be  it  so,  then,"  said  the  other :  "  arise,  and  follow  me." 

The  demon  took  a  torch  in  his  hand,  and  led  the  rabbi 
through  winding  passages  of  his  palace,  to  the  door  of  a 
lofty  chamber,  which  he  opened  with  a  key  that  he  took 
from  a  niche  in  the  wall.  On  entering  the  room,  Jocho- 
nan saw  that  it  was  of  solid  silver — floor,  ceiling,  walls, 
even  to  the  threshold  and  the  door-posts.  And  the  curi- 
ously carved  roof  and  borders  of  the  ceiling  shone  in  the 
torch-light,  as  if  they  were  the  fanciful  work  of  frost.  In 
the  midst  were  heaps  of  silver  money,  piled  up  in  im- 
mense urns  of  the  same  metal,  even  over  the  brim. 

"  Thou  hast  done  me  a  serviceable  act,  rabbi,"  said  the 
demon  :  "  take  of  these  what  thou  pleasest ;  ay,  were  it  the 
whole." 

"I  cannot,  my  lord,"  said  Jochonan.     "I  was  adjured 


176  THE    CITY    OF    THE    DEMONS. 

by  thee  to  come  hither  in  the  name  of  God;  and  in  that 
name  I  came,  not  for  fee  or  for  reward." 

"  Follow  me,"  said  the  prince  of  the  Mazikin  ;  and  Jo- 
chonan  did  so,  into  an  inner  chamber. 

It  was  of  gold,  as  the  other  was  of  silver.  Its  golden 
roof  was  supported  by  pillars  and  pilasters  of  gold,  rest- 
ing upon  a  golden  floor.  The  treasures  of  the  kings  of 
the  earth  would  not  purchase  one  of  the  four-and-twenty 
vessels  of  golden  coins,  which  were  disposed  in  six  rows 
along  the  room.  No  wonder !  for  they  were  rilled  by  the 
constant  labors  of  the  demons  of  the  mine.  The  heart  of 
Jochonan  was  moved  by  avarice,  when  he  saw  them  shin- 
ing in  yellow  light,  like  the  autumnal  sun,  as  they  reflect- 
ed the  beams  of  the  torch.  But  God  enabled  him  to 
persevere. 

"These  are  thine,"  said  the  demon:  "one  of  the  ves- 
sels which  thou  beholdest,  would  make  thee  richest  of  the 
sons  of  men ;  and  I  give  thee  them  all." 

But  Jochonan  refused  again ;  and  the  prince  of  the 
Mazikin  opened  the  door  of  a  third  chamber,  which  was 
called  the  Hall  of  Diamonds.  When  the  rabbi  entered, 
he  screamed  aloud,  and  put  his  hands  over  his  eyes ;  for 
the  lustre  of  the  jewels  dazzled  him,  as  if  he  had  looked 
upon  the  noonday  sun.  In  vases  of  agate  were  heaped 
diamonds  beyond  numeration,  the  smallest  of  which  was 
larger  than  a  pigeon's  egg.  On  alabaster  tables  lay 
amethysts,  topazes,  rubies,  beryls,  and  all  other  precious 
stones,  wrought  by  the  hands  of  skilful  artists,  beyond 
power  of  computation.  The  room  was  lighted  by  a  car- 
buncle, which,  from  the  end  of  the  hall,  poured  its  ever- 
living  light,  brighter  than  the  rays  of  noontide,  but  cooler 
than  the  gentle  radiance  of  the  dewy  moon.  This  was  a 
sore  trial  on  the  rabbi ;  but  he  was  strengthened  from 
above,  and  he  refused  again. 

"  Thou  knowest  me,  then,  I  perceive,  O  Jochonan,  son 
of  Ben-David,"  said  the  prince  of  the  Mazikin.  "  I  am  a 


THE    CITY    OF    THE    DEMONS.  177 

demon,  who  would  tempt  thee  to  destruction.  As  thou  hast 
withstood  so  far,  I  tempt  thee  no  more.  Thou  hast  done 
a  service  which,  though  I  value  it  not,  is  acceptable  in  the 
sight  of  her  whose  love  is  dearer  to  me  than  the  light  of 
life.  Sad  has  been  that  love  to  thee,  my  Rebecca!  Why 
should  I  do  that  which  would  make  thy  cureless  grief 
more  grievous  ? — You  have  yet  another  chamber  to  see," 
said  he  to  Jochonan,  who  had  closed  his  eyes,  and  was 
praying  fervently  to  the  Lord,  beating  his  breast. 

Far  different  from  the  other  chambers,  the  one  into 
which  the  rabbi  was  next  introduced  was  a  mean  and 
paltry  apartment,  without  furniture.  On  its  filthy  walls 
hung  innumerable  bunches  of  rusty  keys,  of  all  sizes,  dis- 
posed without  order.  Among  them,  to  the  astonishment 
of  Jochonan,  hung  the  keys  of  his  own  house,  those  which 
he  had  put  to  hide  when  he  came  on  this  miserable  jour- 
ney ;  and  he  gazed  upon  them  intently. 

"What  dost  thou  see,"  said  the  demon,  "that  makes 
thee  look  so  eagerly  ?  Can  he  who  has  refused  silver,  and 
gold,  and  diamonds,  be  moved  by  a  paltry  bunch  of  rusty 
iron?" 

"  They  are  mine  own,  my  lord,"  said  the  rabbi:  "  them 
will  I  take,  if  they  be  offered  me." 

"  Take  them,  then,"  said  the  demon,  putting  them  into 
his  hand  :  "  thou  mayest  depart.  But,  rabbi,  open  not  thy 
house  only,  when  thou  returnest  to  Cairo,  but  thy  heart 
also.  That  thou  didst  not  open  it  before,  was  that  which 
gave  me  power  over  thee.  It  was  well  that  thou  didst  one 
act  of  charity  in  coming  with  me  without  reward ;  for  it 
has  been  thy  salvation.  Be  no  more  Rabbi  Jochonan 
the  miser." 

The  rabbi  bowed  to  the  ground,  and  blessed  the  Lord 
for  his  escape.  "  But  how,"  said  he,  "am  I  to  return?  for 
I  ki  v  w  not  the  way." 

"  Close  thine  eyes,"  said  the  demon.   He  did  so,  and,  in 


178  THE    CITY    OF    THE    DEMONS. 

the  space  of  a  moment,  heard  the  voice  of  the  prince  of 
the  Mazikin  ordering  him  to  open  them  again.  And,  be- 
hold, when  he  opened  them,  he  stood  in  the  centre  of  his 
own  chamber,  in  his  house  at  Cairo,  with  the  keys  in  his 
hand. 

When  he  recovered  from  his  surprise,  and  had  offered 
thanksgivings  to  God,  he  opened  his  house,  and  his  heart 
also.  He  gave  alms  to  the  poor ;  he  cheered  the  heart  of 
the  widow,  and  lightened  the  destitution  of  the  orphan. 
His  hospitable  board  was  open  to  the  stranger,  and  his 
purse  was  at  the  service  of  all  who  needed  to  share  it. 
His  life  was  a  perpetual  act  of  benevolence,  and  the  bless- 
ings showered  upon  him  by  all  were  returned  bountifully 
upon  him  by  the  hand  of  God. 

But  people  wondered,  and  said,  "  Is  not  this  the  man 
who  was  called  Rabbi  Jochonan  the  miser  ?  What  hath 
made  the  change  ?  "  And  it  became  a  saying  in  Cairo. 
When  it  came  to  the  ears  of  the  rabbi,  he  called  his 
friends  together,  and  he  avowed  his  former  love  of  gold, 
and  the  danger  to  which  it  had  exposed  him,  relating  all 
which  has  been  above  told,  in  the  hall  of  the  new  palace 
that  he  built  by  the  side  of  the  river,  on  the  left  hand,  as 
thou  goest  down  the  course  of  the  great  stream.  And  wise 
men,  who  were  scribes,  wrote  it  down  from  his  mouth,  for 
the  memory  of  mankind,  that  they  might  profit  thereby. 
And  a  venerable  man,  with  a  beard  of  snow,  who  had 
read  it  in  these  books,  and  at  whose  feet  I  sat,  that  I  might 
learn  the  wisdom  of  the  old  time,  told  it  to  me.  And  I 
write  it  in  the  tougue  of  England,  the  merry  and  the  free, 
on  the  tenth  day  of  the  month  Nisan,  in  the  year,  accord- 
ing to  the  lesser  supputation,  five  hundred  ninety  and 
seven,  that  thou  mayest  learn  good  thereof;  if  not,  the 
fault  be  upon  tliee. 


LABOR.  179 


LABOR. 

HEART  of  the  People !  Working  men  ! 

Marrow  and  nerve  of  human  powers  j 
Who  on  your  sturdy  backs  sustain 

Through  streaming  tune  this  world  of  ours ; 
Hold  by  that  title, — which  proclaims 

That  ye  are  undismayed  and  strong, 
Accomplishing  whatever  aims 

May  to  the  sons  of  earth  belong. 

Yet  not  on  ye  alone  depend 

These  offices,  or  burdens  fall ; 
Labor,  for  some  or  other  end, 

Is  lord  and  master  of  us  all. 
The  high-born  youth  from  downy  bed 

Must  meet  the  morn  with  horse  and  hound, 
While  industry  for  daily  bread 

Pursues  afresh  his  wonted  round. 

With  all  his  pomp  of  pleasure,  he 

Is  but  your  working  comrade  now, 
And  shouts  and  winds  his  horn,  as  ye 

Might  whistle  by  the  loom  or  plough; 
In  vain  for  him  has  wealth  the  use 

Of  warm  repose  and  careless  joy, — 
When,  as  ye  labor  to  produce, 

He  strives,  as  active,  to  destroy. 

But  who  is  this  with  wasted  frame, 

Sad  sign  of  vigor  overwrought  ? 
What  toil  can  this  new  victim  claim  ? 

Pleasure,  for  pleasure's  sake  besought. 


180  LABOR. 

How  men  would  mock  her  flaunting  shows, 
Her  golden  promise,  if  they  knew 

What  weary  work  she  is  to  those 
Who  have  no  better  work  to  do  ? 

And  he  who  still  and  silent  sits 

In  closed  room,  or  shady  nook, 
And  seems  to  nurse  his  idle  wits 

With  folded  arms  or  open  book ; 
To  things  now  working  in  that  mind 

Your  children's  children  well  may  owe 
Blessings  that  hope  has  ne'er  denned, 

Till  from  his  busy  thoughts  they  flow. 

Thus  all  must  work  :  with  head  or  hand, 

For  self  or  others,  good  or  ill ; 
Life  is  ordained  to  bear,  like  land, 

Some  fruit,  be  fallow  as  it  will ; 
Evil  has  force  itself  to  sow 

Where  we  deny  the  healthy  seed, — 
And  all  our  choice  is  this, — to  grow 

Pasture  and  grain,  or  noisome  weed. 

Then  in  content  possess  your  hearts, 

Unenvious  of  each  other's  lot, — 
For  those  which  seem  the  easiest  parts 

Have  travail  which  ye  reckon  not : 
And  he  is  bravest,  happiest,  best, 

Who,  from  the  task  within  his  span, 
Earns  for  himself  his  evening  rest, 

And  an  increase  of  good  for  man. 


THE    FOUR   ERAS.  181 


THE  FOUR  ERAS. 

THE  lark  has  sung  his  carol  in  the  sky ; 

The  bees  have  hummed  their  noontide  harmony; 

Still  in  the  vale  the  village-bells  ring  round, 

Still  in  Llewellyn-hall  the  jests  resound  : 

For  now  the  caudle-cup  is  circling  there, 

Now,  glad  at  heart,  the  gossips  breathe  their  prayer, 

And,  crowding,  stop  the  cradle  to  admire 

The  babe,  the  sleeping  image  of  his  sire. 

A  few  short  years — and  then  these  sounds  shall  hail 
The  day  again,  and  gladness  fill  the  vale  ; 
So  soon  the  child  a  youth,  the  youth  a  man, 
Eager  to  run  the  race  his  fathers  ran. 
Then  the  huge  ox  shall  yield  the  broad  sirloin ; 
The  ale,  now  brewed,  in  floods  of  amber  shine ; 
And,  basking  in  the  chimney's  ample  blaze, 
Mid  many  a  tale  told  of  his  boyish  days, 
The  nurse  shall  cry,  of  all  her  ills  beguiled, 
"  'T  was  on  these  knees  he  sat  so  oft  and  smiled." 

And  soon  again  shall  music  swell  the  breeze  j 
Soon,  issuing  forth,  shall  glitter  through  the  trees 
Vestures  of  nuptial  white  ;  and  hymns  be  sung, 
And  violets  scattered  round ;  and  old  and  young, 
In  every  cottage  porch,  with  garlands  green, 
Stand  still  to  gaze,  and,  gazing,  bless  the  scene ; 
While,  her  dark  eyes  declining,  by  his  side 
Moves  in  her  virgin-veil  the  gentle  bride. 

And  once,  alas !   nor  in  a  distant  hour, 
Another  voice  shall  come  from  yonder  tower ; 
16 


182  THE    PAST. 

When  in  dim  chambers  long  black  weeds  are  seen, 
And  weepings  heard  where  only  joy  has  been; 
When  by  his  children  borne,  and  from  his  door 
Slowly  departing  to  return  no  more, 
He  rests  in  holy  earth  with  them  that  went  before. 


THE  PAST. 

How  wild  and  dim  this  life  appears  ! 

One  long  deep  heavy  sigh, 
When  o'er  our  eyes,  half  closed  in  tears, 
The  images  of  former  years 
Are  faintly  glittering  by  ! 

And  still  forgotten  while  they  go ! 
As,  on  the  sea-beach,  wave  on  wave 

Dissolves  at  once  in  snow. 
The  amber  clouds  one  moment  lie, 
Then,  like  a  dream,  are  gone  ! 
Though  beautiful  the  moonbeams  play 
On  the  lake's  bosom,  bright  as  they, 
And  the  soul  intensely  loves  their  stay, 
Soon  as  the  radiance  melts  away, 
We  scarce  believe  it  shone  ! 
Heaven-airs  amid  the  harp-strings  dwell ; 

And  we  wish  they  ne'er  may  fade  ;  — 
They  cease  ; — and  the  soul  is  a  silent  cell, 

Where  music  never  played  ! 
Dreams  follow  dreams,  through  the  long  night-hours, 

Each  lovelier  than  the  last ; 
But,  ere  the  breath  of  morning-flowers, 

That  gorgeous  world  flies  past ; 


DISCOVERY    AND    CONQUEST    OF    AMERICA.  183 

And  many  a  sweet  angelic  cheek, 
Whose  smiles  of  love  and  fondness  speak, 

Glides  by  us  on  this  earth ; 
While  in  a  day  we  cannot  tell 
Where  shone  the  face  we  loved  so  well, 
In  sadness,  or  in  mirth ! 


DISCOVERY  AND   CONQUEST  OF   AMERICA. 

THEN  first  Columbus,  with  the  mighty  hand 
Of  grasping  genius,  weighed  the  sea  and  land ; 
The  floods  o'erbalanced  :  —  where  the  tide  of  light, 
Day  after  day,  rolled  down  the  gulf  of  night, 
There  seemed  one  waste  of  waters  : — long  in  vain 
His  spirit  brooded  o'er  the  Atlantic  main ; 
When  sudden,  as  creation  burst  from  nought, 
Sprang  a  new  world  through  his  stupendous  thought, 
Light,  order,  beauty! — While  his  mind  explored 
The  unveiling  mystery,  his  heart  adored  ; 
Where'er  sublime  imagination  trod, 
He  heard  the  voice,  he  saw  the  face  of  God. 

The  winds  were  prosperous,  and  the  billows  bore 
The  brave  adventurer  to  the  promised  shore  ; 
Far  in  the  west,  arrayed  in  purple  light, 
Dawned  the  new  world  on  his  enraptured  sight : 
Not  Adam,  loosened  from  the  encumbering  earth, 
Waked  by  the  breath  of  God  to  instant  birth,     . 
With  sweeter,  wilder  wonder  gazed  around, 
When  life  within,  and  light  without,  he  found  ; 
When,  all  creation  rushing  o'er  his  soul, 
He  seemed  to  live  and  breathe  throughout  the  whole. 


184  DISCOVERY   AND   CONQUEST   OF   AMERICA. 

So  felt  Columbus,  when,  divinely  fair, 
At  the  last  look  of  resolute  despair, 
The  Hesperian  isles,  from  distance  dimly  blue, 
With  gradual  beauty  opened  on  his  view. 
In  that  proud  moment,  his  transported  mind 
The  morning  and  the  evening  worlds  combined, 
And  made  the  sea,  that  sundered  them,before, 
A  bond  of  peace,  uniting  shore  to  shore. 

Vain,  visionary  hope  !  rapacious  Spain 
Followed  her  hero's  triumph  o'er  the  main, 
Her  hardy  sons  in  fields  of  battle  tried, 
Where  Moor  and  Christian  desperately  died. 
A  rabid  race,  fanatically  bold, 
And  steeled  to  cruelty  by  lust  of  gold, 
Traversed  the  waves,  the  unknown  world  explored, 
The  cross  their  standard,  but  their  faith  the  sword ; 
Their  steps  were  graves ;   o'er  prostrate  realms  they  trod ; 
They  worshipped  Mammon  while  they  vowed  to  God. 

Let  nobler  bards  in  loftier  numbers  tell 
How  Cortez  conquered,  Montezuma  fell ; 
How  fierce  Pizarro's  ruffian  arm  o'erthrew 
The  sun's  resplendent  empire  in  Peru  ; 
How,  like  a  prophet,  old  Las  Casas  stood, 
And  raised  his  voice  against  a  sea  of  blood, 
Whose  chilling  waves  recoiled,  while  he  foretold 
His  country's  ruin  by  avenging  gold. 
—  That  gold,  for  which  unpitied  Indians  fell, 
That  gold,  at  once  the  snare  and  scourge  of  hell, 
Thenceforth  by  righteous  Heaven  was  doomed  to  shed 
Unmingled  curses  on  the  spoiler's  head ; 
For  gold  the  Spaniard  cast  his  soul  away — 
His  gold  and  he  were  every  nation's  prey. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE.  185 


THE   SOLDIER'S   WIFE. 

IT  is  now  many  years  since  the  first  battalion  of  the 
17th  regiment  of  foot,  under  orders  to  embark  for  In- 
dia,— that  far  distant  land,  where  so  many  of  our  brave 
countrymen  have  fallen  victims  to  the  climate,  and  where 
so  few  have  slept  in  what  soldiers  call  the  "  bed  of  glory," 
— were  assembled  in  the  barrack-yard  of  Chatham,  to  be 
inspected  previously  to  their  passing  on  board  the  trans- 
port which  lay  moored  in  the  Downs. 

It  was  scarcely  daybreak  when  the  merry  drum  and 
fife  were  heard  over  all  parts  of  the  town,  and  the  soldiers 
were  seen  sallying  forth  from  their  quarters,  to  join  the 
ranks,  with  their  bright  firelocks  on  their  shoulders,  and 
the  knapsacks  and  canteens  fastened  to  their  backs  by 
belts  as  white  as  snow.  Each  soldier  was  accompanied 
by  some  friend  or  acquaintance,  or  by  some  individual 
with  a  dearer  title  to  his  regard  than  either ;  and  there 
was  a  strange  and  sometimes  a  whimsical  mingling  of 
weeping  and  laughing  among  the  assembled  groups. 

The  second  battalion  was  to  remain  in  England ;  and 
the  greater  portion  of  the  division  were  present  to  bid 
farewell  to  their  old  companions  in  arms.  But  among  the 
husbands  and  wives,  uncertainty,  as  to  their  destiny,  pre- 
vailed ;  for  the  lots  were  yet  to  be  drawn — the  lots  that 
were  to  decide  which  of  the  women  should  accompany  the 
regiment,  and  which  should  remain  behind.  Ten  of  each 
company  were  to  be  taken,  and  chance  was  to  be  the  only 
arbiter.  Without  noticing  what  passed  elsewhere,  I  con- 
fined my  attention  to  that  company  which  was  command- 
ed by  my  friend  Captain  Loder,  a  brave  and  excellent  offi- 
cer, who,  I  am  sure,  has  no  more  than  myself  forgotten 
the  scene  to  which  I  refer. 

The  women  had  gathered  round  the  flag-sergeant,  who 
16* 


186  THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 

held  the  lots  in  his  cap — ten  of  them  marked  "To  go'  — 
and  all  the  others  containing  the  fatal  words  "  To  remain." 
It  was  a  moment  of  dreadful  suspense  j  and  never  have 
I  seen  the  extreme  of  anxiety  so  powerfully  depicted 
in  the  countenances  of  human  beings  as  in  the  features  of 
each  of  the  soldiers'  wives  who  composed  that  group. 
One  advanced,  and  drew  her  ticket ;  it  was  against  her, 
and  she  retreated  sobbing.  Another ;  she  succeeded,  and, 
giving  a  loud  huzza,  ran  off  to  the  distant  ranks  to  em- 
brace her  husband.  A  third  came  forward  with  hesita- 
ting step  :  tears  were  already  chasing  each  other  down  her 
cheeks,  and  there  was  an  unnatural  paleness  on  her  in- 
teresting and  youthful  countenance.  She  put  her  small 
hand  into  the  sergeant's  cap,  and  I  saw,  by  the  rise  and 
fall  of  her  bosom,  even  more  than  her  looks  revealed. 
She  unrolled  the  paper,  looked  upon  it,  and,  with  a  deep 
groan,  fell  back,  and  fainted.  So  intense  was  the  anxiety 
of  every  person  present,  that  she  remained  unnoticed  un- 
til all  the  tickets  had  been  drawn,  and  the  greater  number 
of  the  women  had  left  the  spot.  I  then  looked  round,  and 
beheld  her  supported  by  her  husband,  who  was  kneeling 
upon  the  ground,  gazing  upon  her  face,  and  drying  her 
fast-falling  tears  with  his  coarse  handkerchief,  and  now 
and  then  pressing  it  to  his  own  manly  cheek. 

Captain  Loder  advanced  towards  them.  "  I  am  sorry, 
HenryJenkins,''  said  he,  "  that  fate  has  been  against  you  ; 
but  oearup,  and  be  stout-hearted." 

"  I  am  so,  captain,"  said  the  soldier,  as  he  looked  up, 
and  passed  his  rough  hand  across  his  face ;  "  but  'tis  a 
hard  thing  to  part  from  a  wife,  and  she  so  soon  to  be  a 
mother." 

"  Oh,  captain,"  sobbed  the  young  woman,  "  as  you  are 
both  a  husband  and  a  father,  do  not  take  him  from  me  !  I 
have  no  friend  in  the  wide  world  but  one,  and  you  will  let 
him  bide  with  me !  Oh,  take  me  with  him — take  me  with 
him — for  the  love  of  God,  take  me  with  him,  captain  ! " 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE.  187 

She  fell  on  her  knees,  laid  hold  of  the  officer's  sash,  clasped 
it  firmly  between  her  hands,  and  looked  up  in  his  face, 
exclaiming,  "  Oh,  leave  me  my  only  hope,  at  least  till  God 
has  given  me  another  !  "  and  repeated,  in  heart-rending 
accents,  "  Oh  take  me  with  him  !  take  me  with  him  !  " 

The  gallant  officer  was  himself  in  tears.  He  knew  that 
it  was  impossible  to  grant  the  poor  wife's  petition  without 
creating  much  discontent  in  his  company ;  and  he  gazed 
upon  them  with  that  feeling  with  which  a  good  man  always 
regards  the  sufferings  he  cannot  alleviate.  At  this  mo- 
ment, a  smart  young  soldier  stepped  forward,  and  stood  be- 
fore the  captain  with  his  hand  to  his  cap. 

"  And  what  do  you  want,  my  good  fellow  1 "  said  the 
officer. 

"  My  name's  John  Carty,  please  yer  honor ;  and  I  belong 
to  the  second  battalion." 

"  And  what  do  you  want  here  ?•" 

"  Only,  yer  honor,"  said  Carty,  scratching  his  head, 
"  that  poor  man  and  his  wife  there  are  sorrow-hearted  at 
parting,  I'm  thinking." 

"  Well,  and  what  then?  " 

"  Why,  yer  honor,  they  say  I'm  a  likely  lad,  and  I  know 
I'm  fit  for  sarvice ;  and  if  your  honor  would  only  let 
that  poor  fellow  take  my  place  in  Captain  Bond's  company, 
and  let  me  take  his  place  in  yours,  why,  yer  honor  would 
make  two  poor  things  happy,  and  save  the  life  of  one  of 
them,  I'm  thinking." 

Captain  Loder  considered  for  a  few  minutes,  and,  direct- 
ing the  young  Irishman  to  remain  where  he  was,  proceed- 
ed to  his  brother  officer's  quarters.  He  soon  made  ar- 
rangements for  the  exchange  of  the  soldiers,  and  returned 
to  the  place  where  he  had  left  them. 

"  Well,  John  Carty,"  said  he,  "  you  go  to  Bengal  with 
me ;  and  you,  Henry  Jenkins,  remain  at  home  with  your 
wife." 


188  THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE. 

"  Thank  yer  honor,"  said  John  Carty,  again  touching 
his  cap  as  he  walked  off. 

Henry  Jenkins  and  his  wife  both  rose  from  the  ground, 
and  rushed  into  each  other's  arms.  "  God  bless  you,  cap- 
tain !  "  said  the  soldier  as  he  pressed  his  wife  closer  to  his 
bosom.  "  Oh,  bless  him  forever  !  "  said  the  wife  ;  "  bless 
him  with  prosperity  and  a  happy  heart ! — bless  his  wife, 
and  bless  his  children  !  " — and  she  again  fainted. 

The  officer,  wiping  a  tear  from  his  eye,  and  exclaiming, 
"  May  you  never  want  a  friend  when  I  am  far  from  you — 
you,  my  good  lad,  and  your  amiable  and  loving  wife ! " 
passed  on  to  his  company,  while  the  happy  couple  went  in 
search  of  John  Carty. 

********* 

About  twelve  months  since,  as  two  boys  were  watching 
the  sheep  confided  to  their  charge,  upon  a  wide  heath  in 
the  county  of  Somerset,  their  attention  was  attracted  by  a 
soldier,  who  walked  along  apparently  with  much  fatigue, 
and  at  length  stopped  to  rest  his  weary  limbs  beside  the 
old  finger-post,  which  at  one  time  pointed  out  the  way  to 
the  neighboring  villages,  but  which  now  afforded  no  in- 
formation to  the  traveller ;  for  age  had  rendered  it 
useless. 

The  boys  were  gazing  upon  him  with  much  curiosity, 
when  he  beckoned  them  towards  him,  and  inquired  the 
way  to  the  village  of  Eldenby. 

The  eldest,  a  fine,  intelligent  lad,  of  about  twelve  years 
of  age,  pointed  to  the  path,  and  asked  if  he  were  going 
to  any  particular  house  in  the  village. 

"  No,  my  little  lad,"  said  the  soldier,  "  but  it  is  on  the 
high  road  to  Frome,  and  I  "have  friends  there  ;  but,  in  truth, 
I  am  very  wearied,  and  perhaps  may  find  in  yon  village 
some  person  who  will  befriend  a  poor  fellow,  and  look  to 
God  for  a  reward. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  boy,  "  my  father  was  a  soldier  many  years 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIFE.  ISO 

ago,  and  he  dearly  loves  to  look  upon  a  red  coat.  If  you 
come  with  me,  you  may  be  sure  of  a  welcome." 

"  And  you  can  tell  us  stories  about  foreign  parts,"  said 
the  younger  lad,  a  fine,  chubby-cheeked  fellow,  who,  with 
his  watch-coat  thrown  carelessly  over  his  shoulder,  and 
his  crook  in  his  right  hand,  had  been  minutely  examining 
every  portion  of  the  soldier's  dress. 

The  boys  gave  instructions  to  their  intelligent  dog, 
who,  they  said,  would  take  good  care  of  the  sheep  during 
their  absence  ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  soldier  and  his 
young  companions  reached  the  gate  of  a  flourishing  farm- 
house, which  had  all  the  external  tokens  of  prosperity  and 
happiness.  The  younger  boy  trotted  on  a  few  paces  before, 
to  give  his  parents  notice  that  they  had  invited  a  stranger  to 
rest  beneath  their  hospitable  roof;  and  the  soldier  had 
just  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  door,  when  he  was  re- 
ceived by  a  joyful  cry  of  recognition  from  his  old  friends 
Henry_Jenkins  and  his  wife  ;  and  he  was  welcomed  as  a 
brother  to  the  dwelling  of  those,  who,  in  all  human  prob- 
ability, were  indebted  to  him  for  their  present  enviable 
station. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  pursue  this  story  further  than  to 
add,  that  John  Carty  spent  his  furlough  at  Eldenby  farm ; 
and  that,  at  the  expiration  of  it,  his  discharge  was  pur- 
chased by  his  grateful  friends.  He  is  now  living  in  their 
happy  dwelling ;  and  his  care  and  exertions  have  contrib- 
uted greatly  to  increase  their  prosperity.  Nothing  has 
been  wrong  with  them  since  John  Carty  was  their 
steward. 

"  Cast  thy  bread  upon  the  waters,"  said  the  wise  man, 
"  and  it  shall  be  returned  to  thee  after  many  days." 


190  THE    LOST    CHILD. 


THE   LOST   CHILD. 

LUCY  was  only  six  years  old,  but  bold  as  a  fairy  ;  she 
had  gone  by  herself  a  thousand  times  about  the  braes,  and 
often  upon  errands  to  houses  two  or  three  miles  distant. 
What  had  her  parents  to  fear  ?  The  footpaths  were  all 
firm,  and  led  through  no  places  of  danger;  nor  are  infants 
of  themselves  incautious,  when  alone  in  their  pastimes. 
Lucy  went  singing  into  the  coppice-woods,  and  singing 
she  reappeared  on  the  open  hill-side.  With  her  small 
white  hand  on  the  rail,  she  glided  along  the  wooden 
bridge,  or,  lightly  as  the  ousel,  tripped  from  stone  to  stone 
across  the  shallow  streamlet.  The  creature  would  be 
away  for  hours,  and  no  fears  be  felt  on  her  account  by  any 
one  at  home — whether  she  had  gone  with  her  basket  un- 
der her  arm  to  borrow  some  articles  of  household  use  from 
a  neighbor,  or,  merely  for  her  own  solitary  delight,  wander- 
ed off  to  the  braes  to  play  among  the  flowers,  coming 
back  laden  with  wreaths  and  garlands.  With  a  bonnet 
of  her  own  sewing,  to  shade  her  pretty  face  from  the  sun, 
and  across  her  shoulders  a  plaid  in  which  she  could  sit 
dry  during  an  hour  of  the  heaviest  rain  beneath  the 
smallest  beild,  Lucy  passed  many  long  hours  in  the  day- 
light, and  thus  knew,  without  thinking  of  it,  all  the  topog- 
raphy of  that  pastoral  solitude,  and  even  something  of 
the  changeful  appearances  in  the  air  and  sky. 

The  happy  child  had  been  invited  to  pass  a  whole  day, 
from  morning  to  night,  at  Ladyside  (a  farm-house  about 
two  miles  off),  with  her  playmates,  the  Maynes;  and  she 
left  home  about  an  hour  after  sunrise.  She  was  dressed 
for  a  holiday,  and  father  and  mother,  and  aunt  Isobel,  all 
three  kissed  her  sparkling  face  before  she  set  off  by  her- 


THE     LOST      CH  I  L  D,—  Page   190. 


THE    LOST    CHILD.  191 

self,  and  stood  listening  to  her  singing,  till  her  small  voice 
was  lost  in  the  murmur  of  the  rivulet.  During  her  ab- 
sence, the  house  was  silent  but  happy ;  and,  the  evening 
being  now  far  advanced,  Lucy  was  expected  home  e-very 
minute,  and  Michael,  Agnes,  and  Isobel,  went  to  meet  her 
on  the  way.  They  walked  on  and  on,  wondering  a  little, 
but  in  no  degree  alarmed,  till  they  reached  Ladyside,  and 
heard  the  cheerful  din  of  the  imps  within,  still  rioting  at 
the  close  of  the  holiday.  Jacob  Mayne  came  to  the 
door ;  but,  on  their  kindly  asking  why  Lucy  had  not  been 
sent  home  before  daylight  was  over,  he  looked  painfully 
surprised,  and  said  that  she  had  not  been  at  Ladyside. 

Agnes  suddenly  sat  down,  without  speaking  one  word, 
on  the  stone  seat  beside  the  door,  and  Michael,  supporting 
her,  said,  "  Jacob,  our  child  left  us  this  morning  at  six 
o'clock,  and  it  is  now  near  ten  at  night.  God  is  merciful, 
but,  perhaps,  Lucy  is  dead."  Jacob  Mayne  was  an  ordi- 
nary, common-place,  and  rather  ignorant  man ;  but  his 
heart  leaped  within  him  at  these  words,  and,  by  this  time, 
his  own  children  were  standing  about  the  door.  "  Yes, 
Mr.  Forrester,  God  is  merciful ;  and  your  daughter,  let  us 
trust,  is  not  dead.  Let  us  trust  that  she  yet  liveth ;  and, 
without  delay,  let  us  go  to  seek  the  child."  Michael  trem- 
bled from  head  to  foot,  and  his  voice  was  gone:  he  lifted 
up  his  eyes  to  heaven,  but  it  seemed  not  as  if  he  saw 
either  the  moon  or  the  stars.  "  Run  over  to  Raeshorn, 
some  of  you,"  said  Jacob,  "  and  tell  what  has  happened. 
Do  you,  Isaac,  my  good  boy,  cross  over  to  a'  the  towns  on 
the  Inverlethen-side,  and — Oh  !  Mr.  Forrester — Mr.  For- 
rester, dinna  let  this  trial  overcome  you  sae  sairly  " — for 
Michael  was  leaning  against  the  wall  of  the  house,  and 
the  strong  man  was  helpless  as  a  child.  "  Keep  up  your 
heart,  my  dearest  son,"  said  Isobel,  with  a  voice  all  unlike 
her  usual,  "  keep  up  your  heart,  for  the  blessed  bairn  is, 
beyond  doubt,  somewhere  in  the  keeping  of  the  great 
God,  yea,  without  a  hair  of  her  head  being  hurt.  A 


192  THE    LOST    CHILD. 

hundred  things  may  have  happened  to  her,  and  death  not 
among  the  number.  Oh !  no — no — surely  not  death — that 
would,  indeed,  be  too  dreadful  a  judgment."  And  aunt 
Isobel,  oppressed  by  the  power  of  that  word,  now  needed 
the  very  comfort  that  she  had  in  vain  tried  to  bestow. 

Within  two  hours,  a  hundred  people  were  traversing  the 
hills  in  all  directions,  even  to  a  distance  which  it  seemed 
most  unlikely  that  poor  Lucy  could  have  reached.  The 
shepherds  and  their  dogs,  all  night  through,  searched  every 
nook — every  stony  and  rocky  place— every  little  shaw  — 
every  piece  of  taller  heather — every  crevice  that  could 
conceal  any  thing  alive  or  dead, — but  no  Lucy  was  there. 
Her  mother,  who,  for  a  while,  seemed  inspired  with  super- 
natural strength,  had  joined  in  the  search,  and,  with  a 
quaking  heart,  looked  into  every  brake,  or  stopped  and 
listened  to  every  shout  and  halloo  reverberating  among  the 
hills,  if  she  could  seize  on  some  tone  of  recognition  or 
discovery.  But  the  moon  sank ;  and  then  all  the  stars, 
whose  increased  brightness  had  for  a  short  time  supplied 
her  place,  all  faded  away;  and  then  came  the  gray  dawn 
of  morning,  and  then  the  clear  brightness  of  the  day,  and 
still  Michael  and  Agnes  were  childless.  "  She  has  sunk 
into  some  mossy  or  miry  place,"  said  Michael  to  a  man 
near  him,  into  whose  face  he  never  looked.  "  A  cruel, 
cruel  death  for  one  like  her !  The  earth  on  which  my 
child  walked  has  closed  over  her,  and  we  shall  never  see 
her  more  ! " 

At  last,  a  man,  who  had  left  the  search  and  gone  in  a 
direction  towards  the  high  road,  came  running  with  some- 
thing in  his  arms  towards  the  place  where  Michael  and 
others  were  standing  beside  Agnes,  who  lay  apparently 
exhausted  almost  to  dying  on  the  sward.  He  approached 
hesitatingly;  and  Michael  saw  that  he  carried  Lucy's  bon- 
net, clothes,  and  plaid.  It  was  impossible  not  to  see  some 


THE    LOST    CHILD.  ii;o 

spots  of  blood  upon  the  frill  that  the  child  had  worn  round 
her  neck.  "  Murdered — murdered,"  was  the  one  word 
whispered  or  ejaculated  all  around ;  but  Agnes  heard  it 
not ;  for,  worn  out  by  that  long  night  of  hope  and  despair, 
she  had  fallen  asleep,  and  was  perhaps  seeking  her  lost 
Lucy  in  her  dreams. 

Isobel  took  the  clothes,  and,  narrowly  inspecting  them 
with  eye  and  hand,  said,  with  a  fervent  voice  that  was  heard 
even  in  Michael's  despair,  "  No,  Lucy  is  yet  among  the 
living.  There  are  no  marks  of  violence  on  the  garments 
of  the  innocent — no  murderer's  hand  has  been  here. 
These  blood-spots  have  been  put  there  to  deceive.  Be- 
sides, would  not  the  murderer  have  carried  off  these 
things?  For  what  else  would  he  have  murdered  her? 
But  oh  !  foolish  despair  !  What  speak  I  of  ?  For,  wicked 
as  this  world  is — ay,  desperately  wicked — there  is  not,  on 
all  the  surface  of  the  wide  earth,  a  hand  that  would  mur- 
der our  child  !  Is  it  not  plain  as  the  sun  in  heaven,  that 
Lucy  has  been  stolen  by  some  wretched  gipsy  beggar,  and 
that,  before  that  sun  has  set,  she  will  be  saying  her  prayers 
in  her  father's  house,  with  all  of  us  upon  our  knees  beside 
her,  or  with  our  faces  prostrate  upon  the  floor?" 

Agnes  opened  her  eyes,  and  beheld  Lucy's  bonnet  and 
plaid  lying  close  beside  her,  and  then  a  silent  crowd.  Her 
senses  all  at  once  returned  to  her,  and  she  rose  up — "Ay, 
sure  enough,  drowned — drowned — drowned — but  where 
have  you  laid  her?  Let  me  see  our  Lucy,  Michael,  for  in 
my  sleep  I  have  already  seen  her  laid  out  for  burial."  The 
crowd  quietly  dispersed,  and  horse  and  foot  began  to  scour 
the  country.  Some  took  the  high-roads,  others  all  the  by- 
paths, and  many  the  trackless  hills.  Now  that  they  were 
in  some  measure  relieved  from  the  horrible  belief  that  the 
child  was  dead,  the  worst  other  calamity  seemed  nothing, 
for  hope  brought  her  back  to  their  arms.  Agnes  had  been 
able  to  walk  to  Bracken-Braes,  and  Michael  and  Isobel  sat 
by  her  bed-side.  Lucy's  empty  little  crib  was  just  as  the 
17 


194  THE    LOST    CHILD. 

child  had  left  it  in  the  morning  before,  neatly  made  up 
with  her  own  hands,  and  her  small  red  Bible  was  lying  on 
her  pillow. 

"  Oh !  my  husband,  this  is  being  indeed  kind  to  your 
Agnes,  for  much  it  must  have  cost  you  to  stay  here ;  but 
had  you  left  me,  my  silly  heart  must  have  ceased  to  beat 
altogether,  for  it  will  not  lie  still  even  now  that  I  am  well 
nigh  resigned  to  the  will  of  God."  Michael  put  his  hand 
on  his  wife's  bosom,  and  felt  her  heart  beating  as  if  it  were 
a  knell.  Then,  ever  and  anon,  the  tears  came  gushing  ; 
for  all  her  strength  was  gone,  and  she  lay  at  the  mercy  of 
the  rustle  of  a  leaf,  or  a  shadow  across  the  window  ;  and 
thus  hour  after  hour  passed  on  till  it  was  again  twilight. 

"I  hear  footsteps  coming  up  the  brae,"  said  Agnes,  who 
had  for  some  time  appeared  to  be  slumbering ;  and,  in  a 
few  moments,  the  voice  of  Jacob  Mayne  was  heard  at  the 
outer  door.  It  was  no  time  for  ceremony,  and  he  advan- 
ced into  the  room  where  the  family  had  been  during  all 
that  trying  and  endless  day.  Jacob  wore  a  solemn  ex- 
pression of  countenance ;  and  he  seemed,  from  his  looks, 
to  bring  them  no  comfort.  Michael  stood  up  between 
him  and  his  wife,  and  looked  into  his  heart.  Something 
there  seemed  to  be  in  his  face  that  was  not  miserable.  "  If 
he  has  heard  nothing  of  my  child,"  thought  Michael,  "  this 
man  must  care  but  little  for  his  own  fireside."  "  Oh,  speak, 
speak,"  said  Agnes;  "yet  why  need  you  speak?  All 
this  has  been  but  a  vain  belief,  and  Lucy  is  in  heaven." 
"  Something  like  a  trace  of  her  has  been  discovered — a 
woman,  with  a  child,  that  did  not  look  like  a  child  of  hers, 
was  last  night  at  Clovenford,  and  left  it  by  the  daw'ing." 
"Do  you  hear  that,  my  beloved  Agnes?  "said  Isobel; 
"  she'll  have  tramped  away  with  Lucy  up  into  Ettrick 
or  Yarrow ;  but  hundreds  of  eyes  will  have  been  upon 
her;  for  these  are  quiet,  but  not  solitary  glens;  and  the 
hunt  will  be  over  long  before  she  has  crossed  down  upon 
Hawick.  I  knew  that  country  in  my  young  days.  What 
say  ye,  Mr.  Mayne  ?  There's  the  light  o'  hope  on  your 


THE    LOST    CHILD.  195 

face."  "  There's  nae  reason  to  doubt,  ma'am,  that  it  was 
Lucy.  Every  body  is  sure  o't.  If  it  was  my  ain  Rachel, 
I  should  ha'e  nae  fear  o'  seeing  her  this  blessed  night." 

Jacob  Mayne  now  took  a  chair,  and  sat  down,  with  even 
a  smile  upon  his  countenance.  "  I  may  tell  you,  noo, 
that  Watty  Oliver  kens  it  was  your  bairn ;  for  he  saw  her 
limping  after  the  limmer  at  Galla-Brigg ;  but  ha'eing  nae 
suspicion,  he  did  na  tak'  a  second  leuk  o'  her — but  ae. 
leuk  is  sufficient,  and  he  swears  it  was  bonny  Lucy  For- 
rester." Aunt  Isobel,  by  this  time,  had  bread  and  cheese, 
and  a  bottle  of  her  own  elder-flower  wine,  on  the  table. 
"  You  have  had  a  long  and  hard  journey,  wherever  you 
have  been,  Mr.  Mayne — tak'  some  refreshment," — and 
Michael  asked  a  blessing.  Jacob  saw  that  he  might  now 
venture  to  reveal  the  whole  truth.  "  No — no — Mrs. 
Irvine,  I'm  ower  happy  to  eat  or  to  drink.  You  are  a' 
prepared  for  the  blessing  that  awaits  you — your  bairn  is 
no  far  aff — and  I  mysel' — for  it  was  I  mysel'  that  faund 
her — will  bring  her  by  the  han',  and  restore  her  to  her 
parents."  Agnes  had  raised  herself  up  in  her  bed  at 
these  words ;  but  she  sunk  gently  back  on  her  pillow  ; 
aunt  Isobel  was  rooted  to  her  chair ;  and  Michael,  as  he 
rose  up,  felt  as  if  the  ground  were  sinking  under  his  feet. 

There  was  a  dead  silence  all  around  the  house  for  a 
short  space,  and  then  the  sound  of  many  joyful  voices, 
which  again,  by  degrees,  subsided.  The  eyes  of  all  then 
looked,  and  yet  feared  to  look,  towards  the  door.  Jacob 
Mayne  was  not  so  good  as  his  word ;  for  he  did  not  brino- 
Lucy  by  the  hand  to  restore  her  to  her  parents ;  but,  dress- 
ed again  in  her  own  bonnet,  and  her  gown,  and  her  own 
plaid,  in  rushed  their  child,  by  herself,  with  tears  and 
sobs  of  joy,  and  her  father  laid  her  within  her  mother's 
bosom. 


196  1HE    LYING    SERVANT. 


THE   LYING  SERVANT. 

THERE  lived  in  Suabia  a  certain  lord,  pious,  just,  and 
wise;  to  whose  lot  it  fell  to  have  a  serving-man,  a  great 
rogue,  and,  above  all,  much  addicted  to  the  vice  of  lying. 
The  name  of  the  lord  is  not  in  the  story ;  therefore  the 
reader  need  not  trouble  himself  about  it. 

The  knave  was  given  to  boast  of  his  wondrous  travels. 
He  had  visited  countries  which  are  no  where  to  be  found  in 
the  map,  and  seen  things  which  mortal  eyes  never  beheld. 
He  would  lie  through  the  twenty-four  hours  of  the  clock ; 
for  he  dreamed  falsehoods  in  his  sleep,  to  the  truth  of 
which  he  swore  when  he  was  awake.  His  lord  was  a  cun- 
ning as  well  as  a  virtuous  man,  and  used  to  see  the  lies  in 
the  varlet's  mouth ;  so  that  he  was  often  caught — hung,  as 
it  were,  in  his  own  untruths,  as  in  a  trap.  Nevertheless, 
he  persisted  still  the  more  in  his  lies ;  and  when  any  one 
said,  "  How  can  that  be?"  he  would  answer,  with  fierce 
oaths  and  protestations,  that  so  it  was.  He  swore,  stone 
and  bone,  and  might  the  devil  have  his  soul,  and  so  forth ! 
Yet  was  the  knave  useful  in  the  household;  quick  and 
handy :  therefore  he  was  not  disliked  of  his  lord,  though 
verily  he  was  a  great  liar. 

It  chanced,  one  pleasant  day  in  spring,  after  the  rains 
had  fallen  heavily,  and  swollen  much  the  floods,  that  the 
lord  and  the  knave  rode  out  together;  and  their  way 
passed  through  a  shady  and  silent  forest.  Suddenly 
appeared  an  old  and  well-grown  fox: — "Look!"  exclaim- 
ed the  master  of  the  knave ;  "  look  !  what  a  huge  beast ! 
never  before  have  I  seen  a  renard  so  large !  "  "  Doth 
this  beast  surprise  thee  by  its  hugeness?  "  replieth  straight 
the  serving  groom,  casting  his  eye  slightingly  on  the  ani- 
mal, as  he  fled  for  fear,  away  into  the  cover  of  the  brakes : 
"  by  stone  and  bone,  I  have  been  in  a  kingdom  where  the 


TJiK    L.VTING    SERVANT.  197 

foxes  are  as  big  as  are  the  bulls  in  this ! "  Whereupon, 
hearing  so  vast  a  lie,  the  lord  answered  calmly,  but  with 
mockery  in  his  heart,  "  In  that  kingdom  there  must  be 
excellent  lining  for  the  cloaks,  if  furriers  can  there  be 
found  well  to  dress  skins  so  large  !  " 

And  so  they  rode  on ;  the  lord  in  silence ;  but  soon  he 
began  to  sigh  heavily.  Still  he  seemed  to  wax  more  and 
more  sad  in  spirit,  and  his  sighs  grew  deeper  and  more 
quick.  Then  inquired  the  knave  of  the  lord  what  sud- 
den affliction  or  cause  of  sorrow  had  happened.  "  Alas!" 
replied  the  wily  master,  "  I  trust  in  Heaven's  goodness  that 
neither  of  us  two  hath  to-day,  by  any  frowardness  of  for- 
tune, chanced  to  say  the  thing  which  is  not;  for  assuredly 
he  that  hath  so  done  must  this  day  perish."  The  knave, 
on  hearing  these  doleful  words,  and  perceiving  real  sorrow 
to  be  depicted  on  the  paleness  of  his  master's  countenance, 
instantly  felt  as  if  his  ears  grew  more  wide,  that  not  a 
word,  or  syllable,  of  so  strange  a  discovery  might  escape 
his  troubled  sense ;  and  so,  with  eager  exclamations,  he 
demanded  of  the  lord  to  ease  his  suspense,  and  to  explain 
why  so  cruel  a  doom  was  now  about  to  fall  upon  compan- 
ionable liars. 

"  Hear,  then,  dear  knave,"  answered  the  lord  to  the 
earnestness  of  his  servant ;  "  since  thou  must  needs  know, 
hearken !  and  God  grant  that  no  trouble  come  to  thee 
from  what  I  shall  say.  To-day  we  ride  far ;  and  in  our 
course  is  a  vast  and  heavy-rolling  flood,  of  which  the  ford 
is  narrow,  and  the  pool  is  deep.  To  it  hath  Heaven  given 
the  power  of  sweeping  down  into  its  dark  holes,  all  deal- 
ers in  falsehoods,  who  may  rashly  venture  to  put  them- 
selves within  its  truth-loving  current !  But  to  him  who 
hath  told  no  lie  there  is  no  fear  of  this  river.  Spur  we 
our  horses,  knave,  for  to-day  our  journey  must  be  long!" 

Then  the  knave  thought,  "  long  indeed  must  the  journey 
be  for  some  who  are  now  here ; "  and,  as  he  spurred,  he 
sighed  heavier  and  deeper  than  his  master  had  done  be- 
17  * 


ll»O  THE    LYING    SERVANT. 

fore  him,  who  now  went  gayly  on  ;  nor  ceased  he  to  cry, 
"  Spur  we  our  horses,  knave,  for  to-day  our  journey  must 
be  long !  " 

Then  came  they  to  a  brook.  Its  waters  were  small  and 
its  channel  such  as  a  boy  might  leap  across.  Yet,  never- 
theless, the  knave  began  to  tremble ;  and  falteringly  he 
asked,  "  Is  this  now  the  river  where  harmless  liars  must 
perish  ?  "  "  This  !  ah  no,"  replied  the  lord  :  "  this  is  but  a 
brook — no  liar  need  tremble  here."  Yet  was  the  knave 
not  wholly  assured ;  and,  stammering,  he  said,  "  My  gra- 
cious lord,  thy  servant  now  bethinks  him  that  he  to-day 
hath  made  a  fox  too  huge:  that  of  which  he  spake  was 
verily  not  so  large  as  is  an  ox ;  but,  stone  and  bone,  as  big 
as  is  a  good-sized  roe  !  " 

The  lord  replied,  with  wonder  in  his  tone,  "  What  of 
this  fox  concerneth  me?  If  large  or  small,  I  care  not. 
Spur  we  our  horses,  knave,  for  to-day  our  journey  must 
belong!" 

"  Long  indeed,"  still  thought  the  serving  groom ;  and  in 
sadness  he  crossed  the  brook.  Then  they  came  to  a  stream 
running  quickly  through  a  green  meadow,  the  stones 
showing  themselves  in  many  places  above  its  frothy  water. 
The  varlet  started,  and  cried  aloud,  "Another  river! 
surely  of  rivers  there  is  to-day  no  end :  was  it  of  this  thou 
talkedst  heretofore?"  "No,"  replied  the  lord,  "not  of 
this; "  and  more  he  said  not ;  yet  marked  he,  with  inward 
gladness,  his  servant's  fear.  "  Because,  in  good  truth," 
rejoined  the  knave,  "  it  is  on  my  conscience  to  give  thee 
note,  that  the  fox  of  which  I  spake  was  not  larger  than  a 
calf!  "  "  Large  or  small,  let  me  not  be  troubled  with  thy 
fox :  the  beast  concerneth  not  me  at  all !  " 

As  they  quitted  the  woody  country,  they  perceived  a 
river  in  the  way,  which  gave  sign  of  having  been  swollen 
by  the  rains;  and  on  it  was  a  boat.  "  This,  then,  is  the 
doom  of  liars,"  said  the  kriave;  and  he  looked  earnestly 
towards  the  passage-craft.  "  Be  informed,  my  good  lord, 


THE    LYING    SERVANT.  199 

that  renard  was  not  larger  than  a  fat  wedder-sheep  I " 
The  lord  seemed  angry,  and  answered,  "  This  is  not  yet 
the  grave  of  falsehood  :  why  torment  me  with  this  cursed 
fox !  Rather  spur  we  our  horses,  for  we  have  far  to  go. 
"  Stone  and  bone,"  said  the  knave  to  himself,  "  the  end 
of  my  journey  approacheth  !  " 

Now,  the  day  declined,  and  the  shadows  of  the  travellers 
lengthened  on  the  ground ;  but  darker  than  the  twilight 
was  the  sadness  on  the  face  of  the  knave.  And,  as  the 
wind  rustled  the  trees,  he  ever  and  anon  turned  pale,  and 
inquired  of  his  master,  if  the  noise  were  of  a  torrent  or 
stream  of  water.  Still,  as  the  evening  fell,  his  eyes  strove 
to  discover  the  course  of  a  winding  river.  But  nothing 
of  the  sort  could  he  discern,  so  that  his  spirits  began  to 
revive,  and  he  was  fain  to  join  in  discourse  with  the  lord ; 
but  the  lord  held  his  peace,  and  looked  as  one  who  expects 
an  evil  thing. 

Suddenly  the  way  became  steep,  and  they  descended 
into  a  low  and  woody  valley,  in  which  was  a  broad  and 
black  river,  creeping  fearfully  along,  like  the  dark  stream 
of  Lethe,  without  bridge  or  bark  to  be  seen  near.  "  Alas, 
alas  !  "  cried  the  knave,  and  the  anguish  oozed  from  the 
pores  of  his  pale  face.  "  Ah  miserable  me  !  this,  then,  is 
the  river  in  which  liars  must  perish  !  "  "  Even  so,"  said 
the  lord  :  "  this  is  the  stream  of  which  I  spake  :  but  the 
ford  is  sound  and  good  for  true  men.  Spur  we  our 
horses,  knave,  for  night  approacheth,  and  we  have  yet 
far  to  go." 

"  My  life  is  dear  to  me,"  said  the  trembling  serving- 
man;  "and  thou  knowest  that,  were  it  lost,  my  wife  would 
be  disconsolate.  In  sincerity,  then,  I  declare,  that  the 
fox,  which  I  saw  in  the  distant  country,  was  not  larger 
than  he  who  fled  from  us  in  the  wood  this  morning  /" 

Then  laughed  the  lord  aloud,  and  said,  "Ho,  knave! 
wast  thou  afraid  of  thy  life,  and  will  nothing  cure  thy 
lying  ?  Is  not  falsehood,  which  kills  the  soul,  worse  than 
death,  which  has  mastery  only  over  the  body  ?  This  river 


'200  RENSTERN. 

is  no  more  than  any  other ;  nor  hath  it  a  power  such  as  I 
feigned.  The  ford  is  safe,  and  the  waters  gentle  as  those 
we  have  already  passed.  But  who  shall  pass  thee  over  the 
shame  of  this  day  1  In  it  thou  must  needs  sink,  unless 
penitence  come  to  help  thee  over,  and  cause  thee  to  look 
back  on  the  gulf  of  thy  lies,  as  on  a  danger  from  which 
thou  hast  been  delivered  by  Heaven's  grace."  And,  as  he 
railed  against  his  servant,  the  lord  rode  on  into  the  water, 
and  both  in  safety  reached  the  opposite  shore.  Then 
vowed  the  knave,  by  stone  and  bone,  that  from  that  time 
forward  he  would  duly  measure  his  words — and  glad  was 
he  so  to  escape.  Such  is  the  story  of  the  lying  servant 
and  the  merry  lord — by  which  let  the  reader  profit. 


RENSTERN. 

RENSTERN  was  born  to  the  inheritance  of  all  the  lands 
of  Frankenthall.  They  extend  from  Ranstadt,  in  Bavaria, 
as  far  as  Eindort ;  and  he  who  could  walk  round  them 
from  morning  to  his  evening  meal,  would  earn  it  well. 
Renstern  was  of  an  inquiring  mind,  more  given  to  his 
studies  than  to  his  pleasures;  for,  though  his  father  left 
him  in  unrestricted  possession  at  eighteen,  he  was  rarely 
a  partaker  in  those  amusements  and  pursuits  which  his 
youth  might  have  been  supposed  to  incite  him  to,  and  which 
his  fortune  would  have  enabled  him  to  follow.  Renstern, 
though  a  philosopher,  was  not  indifferent  to  the  charms 
of  woman.  Philosophy,  indeed,  generally  gave  way  in 
the  beginning ;  but  in  the  end  it  was  sure  to  regain  its 
ascendency.  A  fearful  inroad,  however,  was  made  upon 
his  studies  by  the  charms  of  Ermance  Rosenheim,  just 
growing  into  woman,  the  daughter  of  the  Baron  Rosen- 
heim, a  Bavarian.  There  may,  perhaps,  have  been  love- 
lier girls  than  Ermance  Rosenheim,  but  never  one  more 


RENSTERN.  201 

-/•  V 

gentle  and  innocent.  She  had  that,  too,  which  beauty/ 
sometimes  wants, — that  perfect  charm  of  youth  and  fresh- 
ness, which  seems  as  if  sorrow  never  could  shadow  it. 
Her  smile  was  like  the  day-break  on  an  Italian  landscape, 
and  the  melody  of  her  voice  seemed  an  emanation  from 
the  harmony  of  her  soul.  Often  would  Renstern  sit  down 
to  his  metaphysics  in  the  castle  of  Frankenthall,  and  re- 
main absorbed  in  study,  till,  suddenly,  the  image  of  Er- 
in ance  presenting  itself,  he  would  close  his  books,  order 
his  horse,  and  gallop  over  to  Eindort,  to  press  a  silky  hand, 
and  admire  fair  tresses.  Do  not  imagine,  that,  because 
Renstern  was  a  philosopher,  he  knew  not  how  to  woo. 
Renstern  could  say  as  gallant  things  as  any  man  in  Bava- 
ria ;  but  it  was  not  gallantry  he  spoke  to  Ermance.  He 
had  an  easy  task ;  for  he  was  sincere,  and  Ermance 
smiled  upon  him.  It  was  often  late  when  Renstern  re- 
turned to  Frankenthall ;  but,  finding  his  books  lying  as  if 
waiting  to  be  read,  he  would  relight  his  lamp,  and  plunge 
into  metaphysics  again  ;  and  morning  would  often  surprise 
him  at  his  studies.  But  this  could  not  last.  Renstern  mar- 
ried Ermance  on  his  twenty-first  birth-day  ;  she  was  seven- 
teen ;  and  for  more  than  a  year  he  forgot,  in  her  arms,  all  his 
metaphysics  and  theology.  But  the  dominant  passion  of 
the  human  mind  will  continue  to  be  dominant.  Love  is 
only  an  episode  in  a  man's  life;  it  cannot  occupy  his  ex- 
istence. The  other  sex  give  up  all  to  the  affections,  and 
many  of  them  can  live  forever  upon  their  exercise ;  but 
they  are  always  deceived.  Gentle,  kind,  affectionate  wo- 
man !  we  are  too  hard-hearted  to  be  your  mates  :  it  is  true 
we  can  love  ardently  ;  but  it  is  you  alone  who  know  to  love 
constantly.  Renstern  was  again  often  among  his  books  ; 
and  Ermance  wondered  that  he  was  so  often  absent  from 
her,  and  so  silent  when  with  her.  Renstern  still  loved 
Ermance  :  he  mingled  in  no  amusement  in  which  she 
was  not  a  partaker,  nor  could  he  have  found  any  pleasure 
where  she  did  not  share  it.  He  thought  he  loved  her  as 


v\> 

202  RENSTERN. 

much  as  on  the  day  when  he  led  her  from  the  altar  in 
maiden  bashfulness  and  beauty;  and  if  his  affection  had 
depended  upon  her  charms  and  her  bashfulness,  he  would 
have  been  right ;  for  Ermance  was  as  lovely  and  as  bash- 
ful as  ever.  But  Renstern  deceived  himself.  Ermance 
could  no  longer  satisfy  his  existence.  Ermance  was  no 
metaphysician  ;  he  could  not  talk  to  her  of  first  causes  and 
future  contingents.  The  marriage  state  gives  rise  to  many 
subjects  of  conversation  less  elevated  than  that  which  pre- 
cedes it ;  and  it  is  not  wonderful  that  Renstern  should 
often  be  silent  and  thoughtful  in  her  company,  since  do- 
mestic affairs,  or  even  tenderer  topics,  would  cut  but  a 
sorry  figure  in  the  mind  of  a  man  who  had  just  been  trav- 
elling in  the  immensity  of  time  and  space,  and  whose 
mind  was  occupied  with  eternal  existences,  and  the  na- 
ture of  a  Supreme  Intelligence. 

Renstern  betrayed,  indeed,  no  want  of  affection,  except- 
ing that  Ermance  had  little  of  his  company  :  his  time  was 
divided  betwixt  study  and  reverie.  Poor  Ermance !  she 
was  often  given  up  to  reverie  too;  for  often  did  she  think 
of  the  first  months  that  succeeded  her  marriage,  and  often 
did  she  recall  the  words  of  Renstern,  that  he  had  attain- 
ed the  summit  of  happiness  in  possessing  her.  Alas !  he 
spoke  too  truly : — happiness  cannot  continue  at  one 
elevation. 

Six  months  had  passed  away.  One  evening,  said  Ren- 
stern to  Ermance,  "  Ermance,  there  is  no  reason  why  we 
should  not  live  as  our  fortune  and  rank  entitle  us  to  do. 
We  must  enjoy  life,  my  love."  "  Do  we  not,  Otto  ?  "  re- 
plied she.  "  How  would  you  that  we  should  live ? "  "I 
would  carry  you  to  Vienna,''  replied  he  ;  "I  would  intro- 
duce you  at  court;  I  would  show  you  the  world."  Er- 
mance did  not  see  that  living  in  greater  splendor,  or  being 
introduced  at  the  court  of  Vienna,  would  add  to  her  en- 
joyment. Her  happiest  days  had  been  spent  at  Franken- 
thall ;  and  if  Renstern  would  be  again  the  Renstern  he 


REN STERN.  203 

had  once  been,  she  could  be  as  happy  as  ever.  The  rec- 
ollection of  those  days,  ^however,  led  her  to  indulge  an 
undefined  hope,  that  perhaps  a  change  of  scene  might 
produce  good.  Besides,  Ermance  was  too  affectionate  to 
oppose  any  thing  which  Renstern  might  desire,  whatever 
might  be  her  own  wishes.  She  immediately,  therefore, 
expressed  her  willingness  to  go  to  Vienna.  Their  journey 
might  be  called  a  happy  one.  Renstern  was  himself  again, 
and  with  Ermance  former  days  were  renewed.  Renstern 
had  an  end  in  view,  and  all  was  novelty  to  Ermance. 
She  was  astonished,  pleased,  and  affrighted,  by  turns; 
she  felt  all  that  exhilaration  of  spirit,  and  infantine  enjoy- 
ment, in  crossing  the  boundaries  of  another  kingdom, 
which  every  young  person  experiences,  when  it  is  the  first 
time  it  has  happened.  There  is  no  circumstance  in  life 
which  draws  closer  the  affections  than  travelling.  In 
every  thing  that  occurs,  there  is  a  certain  degree  of  com- 
mon sympathy ;  and  numerous  occasions  arise  in  which 
the  protector  must  show  an  interest  in  the  protected 
There  was  nothing  to  distract  Renstern's  mind  ;  and  the 
simplicity,  and  astonishment,  and  happiness,  of  Ermance 
pleased  and  occupied  him.  Never  had  she  appeared  more 
charming  either.  The  excitation  had  restored  for  a  season 
that  tint  to  her  cheek  which  reminded  him  of  Eindort; 
and  one  of  the  chains  which  had  originally  bound  Ren- 
stern was  beauty.  Let  no  one  speak  lightly  of  the  charm 
of  beauty:  it  is  fragile,  indeed;  and  what  is  not?  Are 
health  and  youth  more  durable  ?  and  do  we  despise  them  1 
Is  the  painted  flower  we  gaze  upon  less  perishable  ? 
Beauty  may  be,  perchance,  a  fatal  dowry,  and,  at  rare  times, 
it  may  interpret  falsely,  like  the  Pontine  marshes,  which 
are  covered  with  verdure  and  flowers;  but  how  beautiful- 
ly is  an  angelic  soul  reflected  in  celestial  features ! 

Behold  the  Baron  Renstern  of  Frankenthall,  and  the 
fair  Ermance,  at  the  court  of  Vienna.  The  manners  of 
Vienna  are  not  those  of  Ranstadt.  There,  as  in  every 


204  RENSTERN. 

other  capital  city,  innocence  and  simplicity  are  despised"; 
vice  and  virtue  are  judged  by^  the  changing  verdict  of 
fashion,  in  place  of  the  eternal  tribunal  of  truth,  and 
things  can  no  longer  be  recognized  by  their  names.  Er- 
mance  found  herself  singular  in  her  opinions,  and  for 
their  correctness  she  appealed  to  Renstern ;  but  Renstern 
saw  no  distinction  betwixt  vice  and  virtue. 

Six  months  of  Vienna  ruined  Renstern.  No  one  in 
Vienna  gave  such  magnificent  entertainments;  no  one 
was  more  distinguished  for  the  splendor  of  his  equipages. 
These,  however,  his  fortune  could  have  supported  ;  but  he 
gave  magnificent  presents  to  his  favorites,  gambled,  and 
was  ruined.  During  this  period,  what  were  the  feelings 
and  occupations  of  Ermance  ?  Alas !  sadness  had  begun 
to  grow  to  her  heart,  and  had  already  overcast  her  brow. 
Her  charms  were  more  touching  than  ever,  though  the 
light  of  her  beauty  was  gone,  like  the  charm  of  a  southern 
night,  whose  beauty  testifies  to  the  splendors  of  the  day 
which  preceded  it.  She  had  mingled  in  gayety  without 
relish,  and  in  society  she  had  found  no  friend.  The 
flattery  she  met  with  disgusted  her,  and  the  court  that 
was  paid  to  her  fatigued  her.  She  had  seen  her  husband 
play  deep,  and  she  feared  that  he  played  deeper  when  she 
saw  him  not.  Of  his  intrigues  she  knew  nothing,  and 
suspected  nothing.  She  was  too  innocent  to  suppose  it 
possible  that  her  husband  would  forget  his  vows,  and 
plight  his  faith  to  others  ;  but  she  saw  that  he  too  often 
preferred  to  hers  the  society  of  others ;  and  she  wished 
that  she  possessed  their  charms,  or  that  she  had  never 
left  Frankenthall.  "  Ermance,"  said  Renstern  to  her,  one 
morning,  "  we  must  leave  Vienna."  Ermance  was  de- 
lighted to  hear  the . intelligence.  "I  have  no  desire  to 
remain  in  Vienna,"  replied  she;  "  I  love  Frankenthall  bet- 
ter." "  But  we  shall  not  go  to  Frankenthall,"  said  he; 
"  Frankenthall  is  no  longer  mine."  The  truth  flashed  upon 
Ermance ;  but  her  looks  expressed  affection  and  resigna- 


RENSTEHN.  205 

tion,  not  reproach.  Renstern  was,  for  a  moment,  touch- 
ed by  her  charms  and  her  goodness,  and  fondly  took  her 
hand,  and  called  her  his  dear  Ermance,  and  embraced 
her.  It  is  strange  how  mysteriously  pain  and  pleasure 
are  sometimes  mingled.  In  the  moment  of  learning  her 
ruin,  Ermance  tasted  a  moment  of  perfect  happiness  ; 
and  Renstern,  in  communicating  it,  forgot,  in  that  mo- 
ment, that  he  was  ruined.  There  is  a  certain  point  at 
which  the  human  mind  gathers  strength  from  its  calamity  : 
it  grasps,  as  with  giant  strength,  the  very  shaft  that  pierces  ; 
and,  in  the  consciousness  of  its  power,  rises  for  a  time 
above  humanity,  and  consequently  above  that  calamity 
which  is  human.  But  Renstern  had  told  the  truth : — the 
lands  of  Frankenthall  had  passed  into  other  hands. 
Renstern,  however,  like  all  gamblers,  thought  it  possible 
that  his  fortune  might  be  regained,  and  therefore  made  it 
a  condition  of  the  sale,  that  he  should  have  a  power  of 
redeeming  his  possessions  within  one  year. 

In  a  few  days  after  this  communication,  Renstern  and 
Ermance  left  Vienna,  and  retired  to  the  village  of  Holt  in 
Swabia,  in  the  neighborhood  of  which  his  uncle  resided, 
who  had  offered  Renstern  a  house  upon  his  property. 
The  Comte  Font-barre  was  a  man  of  immense  fortune,  of 
retired  habits,  and  of  a  philosophical  turn  of  mind ;  he 
had  been  long  a  widower,  and  his  only  son  had,  a  few 
years  before,  married,  contrary  to  his  father's  wish,  and 
gone  abroad  under  his  displeasure ;  but  Font-barre  often 
talked  of  forgiving  him,  and  of  recalling  him  to  cheer 
the  evening  of  his  days.  It  was  impossible  that  Ren- 
stern's  uncle  should  not  disapprove  of  the  conduct  which 
had  brought  his  nephew  to  ruin ;  but  he  felt  so  much  in- 
terest in  Ermance,  that  he  would  not  wound  her  feelings 
by  looking  cold  upon  her  husband  ;  and  it  may  be,  also, 
that  he  was  too  happy  to  have  a  philosophical  compan- 
ion, to  dwell  much  upon  the  cause  which  brought  about  the 
event. 

18 


206  REN STERN. 

For  some  time  after  Renstern  arrived  at  Holt,  he  was 
silent  and  gloomy,  seeming  to  enjoy  nothing,  and  to  ex- 
ist without  interest.  He  had  joined  in  pleasures  whose 
enjoyment  is  a  fever,  but  which  leaves  an  apathy  and  a 
void  more  insupportable  than  the  agonies  which  attend 
it ;  and  he  had  tasted  of  unholy  joys,  which  had  left  the 
memory  of  their  intoxication.  Renstern,  in  the  village 
of  Holt,  was  differently  regarded  by  the  world  from  Ren- 
stern in  the  castle  of  Frankenthall ;  and  he  knew  not  that 
the  world's  homage  was  sweet,  until  it  was  refused  to  him. 
One  pang,  the  severest  pang  of  all,  his  principles  spared 
him — the  consciousness  that  his  misfortunes  were  the 
fruit  of  his  own  misconduct.  He  laid  them  at  the  door 
of  destiny  ;  but  he  had  forgotten  to  acquire  that  philoso- 
phy, the  most  important  of  all,  which  teaches  man  to  ac- 
commodate himself  to  the  lot  which  that  destiny  shall  point 
out.  Suddenly  a  change  was  visible  in  the  manners  of 
Renstern :  he  was  often  more  cheerful  than  he  was  ever 
remembered  to  have  been.  He  was  still  sometimes 
thoughtful,  but  he  was  no  longer  gloomy  or  morose ;  and 
at  times  there  was  a  playfulness  in  his  manner  which  re- 
minded Ermance  of  happier  days.  It  would  have  required 
a  deeper  discerner  of  human  character  than  Ermance,  to 
have  discovered  that  it  was  like  an  occasional  ripple  upon 
deep  water,  which  hinders  its  profundity  from  being  seen. 
She  was  rejoiced  at  the  change ;  she  had  more  of  Ren- 
stern's  company  than  she  had  had  since  the  first  year  of 
their  marriage ;  and  though  she  was  somewhat  surprised 
at  its  suddenness,  it  was  not  the  less  agreeable  on  that  ac- 
count ;  and  she  fondly  flattered  herself  that  former  times 
were  about  to  be  renewed.  She  could  not,  however,  help 
remarking  one  circumstance  as  somewhat  extraordinary  : 
it  was,  that,  when  Renstern  was  with  his  uncle,  his  gayety 
was  unbounded,  and  even  unnatural  to  his  character  ;  but 
that  before,  and  after  his  visit,  he  was  always  thought- 
ful, gloomy,  and  absent.  The  circumstance  would  have 


RENSTERN.  207 

remained  unnoticed  by  Ermance,  had  it  not  been  that 
these  occasional  reminiscences  of  former  days  were  pain- 
ful to  her.  They  were  all  that  she  had  now  to  complain 
of;  and,  as  her  husband's  change  of  manner  had  restored 
her  to  almost  all  her  former  familiarity,  she  determined  to 
ask  the  reason.  "  Otto,"  said  Ermance,  one  morning,  ex- 
tending to  him,  in  sweet  confidence,  her  fair  hand,  "  how  I 
rejoice  to  see  your  spirits  so  much  improved  !  "  She  paus- 
ed a  moment,  and  then  timidly  added,  "  There  is  now 
only  one  occasion  on  which  you  are  gloomy."  "  What  is 
that,  my  love  ?  "  demanded  Renstern.  "  Before  and  after 
visiting  your  uncle ;  and  you  are  always  so  gay  when  with 
him."  Before  Ermance  had  finished  the  sentence,  Ren- 
stern  had  risen,  and  walked  across  the  room  ;  but  he  im- 
mediately returned,  and  said,  "I  am  not  aware,  Ermance, 
of  my  being  either  gay  or  sad  on  these  occasions  ;  but  is  it 
not  natural  to  be  gay  when  with  our  friends,  and  sorry 
when  we  leave  them  ?  "  Ermance  asked  no  further  expla- 
nation, and  hardly  thought  more  of  it.  It  passed  rapidly 
across  her  mind,  indeed,  that  one  ought  not  to  be  sad  be- 
fore visiting  one's  friends,  and  that  quitting  those  whom 
we  are  to  see  next  day  is  hardly  a  cause  for  sadness ;  but 
the  thought  passed  away. 

About  the  commencement  of  Renstern's  change  of 
manner,  a  circumstance  occurred  which  it  is  necessary 
to  notice.  One  evening,  when  Renstern  and  Ermance 
were  with  Font-barre,  he  addressed  his  nephew  thus : — 
"Renstern,"  said  he,  "I  feel  that  I  can  forgive  my  son  ; 
but  the  overture  must  come  from  him.  Do  you  write  to 
your  cousin,  and  say  you  have  reason  to  think,  that,  if  he 
would  ask  his  father's  pardon,  it  would  be  granted." 
Renstern  promised  ;  and  often  since,  the  good  man  had 
expressed  his  disappointment,  that  there  was  yet  no  an- 
swer from  his  son. 

It  was  now  ten  months  since  Renstern  had  left  Vienna. 
He  had  gone  to  Ulm  on  account  of  some  little  affair,  and 


208  RENSTERN. 

returned  upon  the  day  which  he  and  Ermance  were  in  the 
weekly  habit  of  passing  with  Font-barre.  "  Ermance,'" 
said  he,  "  I  have  some  business  to  talk  over  with  my  un- 
cle to-day  ;  and  I  have  brought  you  some  baubles  from 
Ulm,  to  amuse  you  during  my  absence."  Renstern  re- 
turned late  from  his  uncle's,  and  found  Ermance  reading 
her  prayers.  Next  morning  Font-barre  was  no  more.  An 
early  summons  informed  Renstern  of  his  loss.  Being  the 
nearest  relation  on  the  spot,  he  acted  as  executor  ;  and  a 
will  was  discovered,  by  which  Font-barre's  son  was  disin- 
herited, and  Renstern  made  heir  to  his  uncle's  wealth. 
Ermance  trusted  that  her  lord  would  be  generous  to  his 
cousin — she  was  sure  he  would  ;  but  is  it  to  be  wondered 
at,  that  she  was  pleased  at  an  event  which  restored  her 
husband  to  the  rank  which  she  thought  him  so  worthy  to 
hold? 

The  year  was  about  to  expire,  within  which  Renstern 
had  the  power  to  redeem  his  lands.  The  gold  was  told 
out,  and  Renstern  was  again  Lord  of  Frankenthall. 

Do  you  hear  how  merrily  the  bells  of  Ranstadt  are  ring- 
ing ?  Children  strew  flowers  on  the  streets  ;  and  the 
sound  of  welcome  and  rejoicing  fills  the  air,  as  the  mag- 
nificent equipage  drives  under  the  Munich  gate.  Six 
horsemen,  upon  richly-caparisoned  Hungarians,  ride  be- 
fore, blowing  silver  trumpets ;  six  horses,  in  magnificent 
trappings,  lead  rapidly  on  the  chariot,  where  sit  the  Baron 
of  Frankenthall  and  the  fair  Ermance  ;  and  twelve  of  the 
chief  vassals,  upon  prancing  steeds,  bring  up  the  rear, 
arrayed  in  the  colors  of  the  house,  and  bearing  its  trophies. 
Sweetly  did  Ermance  smile,  and  kiss  her  hand  to  the  peo- 
ple who  adored  her,  as  she  passed  along  the  streets  ;  and 
often  did  the  baron  bow  in  affable  dignity. 

It  was  a  beautiful  May  day  :  the  sun  looked  out  joyfully, 
and  the  gayety  of  external  nature  seemed  to  invite  happi- 
ness to  harmonize  with  it.  Never  had  the  abode  of  Ren- 
stern looked  more  lovely.  The  trees  were  covered  with 


RENSTERN.  209 

leaves  and  blossoms  ;  the  earth  was  full  of  flowers,  the 
last  of  the  spring  and  the  first-born  of  summer ;  the 
perfumes  of  the  hawthorn  and  the  violet  mingled  together, 
and  made  harmoay  of  sweet  smells,  as  the  birds  made 
harmony  of  sounds.  Ermance  was  happy. 

There  was  a  great  feast  that  day  at  Frankenthall :  all 
Ranstadt  and  Eindort  were  invited  to  partake  of  it,  and 
many  nobles  came  from  far  to  renew  their  friendship  with 
its  possessor.  The  feast  was  loud  and  joyous,  and,  long 
after  the  vassals  had  retired,  the  hall  resounded  with  the 
mirth  of  the  nobles ;  but  at  length  it  was  past,  and  all 
was  silent,  and  Renstern  walked  forth  to  taste  the  cool  of 
the  night  air.  He  looked  down  upon  Ranstadt  and  Ein- 
dort:  the  fires  yet  blazed  on  the  neighboring  heights;  the 
illuminations  were  not  quite  extinct,  and  the  sound  of 
distant  mirth  occasionally  broke  upon  the  silence.  Around 
and  above  all  was  calm  and  still. 

It  had  been  intended  that  Renstern  and  Ermance 
should  remain  a  short  time  at  Frankenthall,  and  then  re- 
pair to  Vienna.  Sad  as  were  Ermance's  associations 
with  Vienna,  she  looked  forward  to  the  time  with  eager- 
ness and  joy;  for,  alas  !  she  was  miserable  at  Frankenthall. 
Renstern  was  hardly  ever  with  her,  and  his  presence 
brought  no  comfort  with  it.  All  day  long  he  would  walk 
or  ride  over  the  country ;  and  it  was  only  when  day  closed 
that  he  returned  to  Frankenthall.  When  Ermance  spoke 
to  him,  he  seemed  hardly  to  hear  her :  he  was  in  a  state 
of  constant  restlessness  :  the  least  noise  seemed  to  alarm 
him ;  and  if  at  night  a  knock  was  heard  at  the  gate,  he 
would  start  from  his  chair.  He  invited  the  neighboring 
gentry  to  the  castle  ;  but  they  liked  not  the  visit,  and  sel- 
dom came.  Renstern,  they  said,  was  changed  ;  he  seemed 
absent  and  uncourtly,  and  looked  upon  his  guests  suspi- 
ciously. Sometimes  he  would  drink  deep,  Ermance  the 
only  witness;  and  then  he  would  laugh  loud,  and  speak 
of  the  pleasures  of  Vienna,  and  call  her  his  sweet  mistress, 
18* 


210  RENSTERN. 

and  declare  that  life  must  be  enjoyed.  Remorse  is  like  a 
cancer;  it  eats  life  away: — the  mind  becomes  a  volcano; 
the  flame  may  burn  low  ;  but  the  fire  lives  on  ;  and,  be- 
neath an  outward  calmness,  there  is  a  hell. 

All  was  mystery  to  Ermance  ;  but  she  was  miserable. 
How  changed  were  her  smiles  !  They  came,  like  unlook- 
ed-for strangers,  to  those  lips,  where,  in  former  days,  they 
lay  enamored,  like  the  golden  clouds  that  worship  around 
the  sun.  They  came  suddenly,  as  if  to  keep  tears  down 
in  the  fountain  of  sorrow ;  they  were  like  sun-beams  fall- 
ing upon  thick  mists,  or  like  the  lamps  which  illumine  a 
sepulchre.  Often  would  her  tears  choke  the  utterance  of 
her  prayers  ;  and  then  she  would  raise  her  streaming  eyes 
to  heaven,  and  think  of  the  goodness  of  God,  and  the 
misery  of  her  husband  ;  that  misery  which,  though  hidden 
from  her,  was  no  mystery  to  the  Eternal.  Often  would 
she  wander  slowly  among  the  beautiful  environs  of  the 
castle,  to  try  if  the  beauty  and  calmness  of  nature  would 
communicate  tranquillity  to  her  soul.  Alas!  the  charm 
of  nature  can  soothe  that  sorrow  alone  whose  pangs  would 
yield  to  time ;  but  the  sorrows  which  are  mingled  with  un- 
certainty the  calmness  of  nature  cannot  still.  Sometimes 
she  was  on  the  point  of  telling  her  misery  to  Renstern, 
of  throwing  herself  into  his  arms,  and  asking  leave  to 
console  him ;  but  his  looks  were  forbidding,  and  she 
feared  to  learn  evil.  At  last  the  misery  of  uncertainty 
triumphed  over  her  diffidence  and  her  fears.  "  Otto," 
said  she,  fearfully,  and  with  a  trembling  voice,  "  when  we 
drove  through  Ranstadt,  I  thought  we  should  be  happy  at 
Frankenthall."  Renstern  made  no  reply ;  but  she  could 
no  longer  hide  her  wretchedness  and  her  tears  :  she  threw 
herself  upon  her  husband's  neck  and  sobbed  bitterly. 
Renstern  did  not  repulse  her.  "  Ermance,"  said  he,  "  my 
kind  one,  I  shall  be  less  gloomy  to-morrow,  and  then  you 
will  be  happier."  The  morrow  came,  and  Ermance  per- 
ceived a  change  in  his  manner  :  he  remained  at  Franken- 


RENSTERN.  211 

thall  all  day,  and  spoke  more,  and  looked  with  more  kind- 
ness upon  her,  than  she  had  remembered  for  a  long  time. 

It  was  the  evening,  and  they  were  sitting  together,  and 
alone ;  a  bright  fire  blazed  on  the  hearth,  and  Ermance 
felt  that  a  ray  of  hope  and  happiness  had  entered  her 
heart.  "Ermance,"  said  Renstern  to  her,  "I  will  tell 
you  a  story.  There  was  once  a  Silesian  ;  and  this  Silesian 
was  an  atheist.  You  know,  Ermance,  what  an  atheist 
is  ?  "  "  Yes,"  replied  she,  "  but  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  a 
story  about  atheists."  "  This  Silesian,"  continued  he, 
"  inherited  great  possessions ;  but  they  passed  from  him, 
no  matter  how.  The  Silesian  had  a  rich  relative,  who 
had  an  only  son  ;  but  the  son  was  in  a  foreign  land  ;  and 
what  do  you  think  the  Silesian  did  ?  "  "I  know  not," 
said  Ermance.  "  Nay,  but  guess,"  said  he  ;  "  the  sequel 
is  the  best  of  it."  "  Indeed  I  cannot;  but  look  less  wild- 
ly, Otto."  "  He  forged  a  will  in  his  own  favor,  and  poi- 
soned his  uncle."  "  His  uncle,  did  you  say  ?  "  interrupt- 
ed Ermance.  "  I  know  not,"  continued  he ;  "  his  rela- 
tive ;  but  it  matters  not :  the  Silesian  recovered  his  lands, 
and  he  thought  he  should  then  enjoy  himself."  "  Enjoy 
himself!"  interrupted  Ermance;  "how  could  a  murderer 
hope  to  enjoy  himself? "  "  But  I  have  told  you,"  contin- 
ued Renstern,  "  that  the  Silesian  was  an  atheist.  He 
knew  that  the  deed  could  not  be  discovered  in  this  world  ; 
and  as  he  did  not  believe  in  any  other,  he  thought  he  had 
nothing  to  fear."  "  He  had  his  conscience  to  fear,"  said 
Ermance.  "  I  know  not,"  continued  Renstern;  "  but  the 
Silesian  was  deceived.  He  became  the  slave  of  fear,  and 
he  knew  not  of  what,  but  yet  he  was  miserable.  He  was 
afraid  to  look  around  him,  lest  he  should  see  his  uncle; 
but  his  fear  was  foolish,  for  he  knew  his  uncle  could  not 
rise  from  his  grave.  He  heard  forever  a  silent  talking  in 
the  air — a  horrid  silence,  which  was  not  silence.  The 
most  common  things  became,  in  his  eyes,  objects  of  ter- 
ror ;  even  the  implements  of  household  use  took,  in  his 


212  A    VINDICATION    OF    AUTHORS 

imagination,  shapes  of  hideous  deformity,  which  he  dared 
not  look  upon.  The  least  noise  would  alarm  him." 

Ermance  trembled :  the  traits  of  resemblance  had  pro- 
duced no  suspicion ;  still  the  resemblance  affrighted  her, 
and  an  undefined  horror  thrilled  through  her.  "  Renstern, 
Otto,"  said  she,  "  finish  this  dreadful  tale."  "  Presently," 
continued  he  :  "  the  Silesian  dreaded  his  sleeping  hours  the 
most ;  and  he  tried  to  keep  himself  awake.  His  dreams  ! 
but  they  were  too  dreadful  to  tell  you.  He  thought  of  re- 
questing his  wife  to  awake  him  when  he  slept."  "  Alas  ! 
he  had  a  wife  then?"  said  Ermance.  "He  had,"  con- 
tinued Renstern ;  but  she  knew  nothing  of  his  deeds  un- 
til the  day  when  he  poisoned  himself."  "  Alas  !  his  poor 
wife  !  "  said  Ermance.  "  The  Silesian  found  existence 
insupportable  ;  and  he  knew  that  death  would  terminate 
his  misery.  It  might  be  in  the  evening  about  this  time, 
that  the  Silesian  entered  the  room  where  his  wife  was, 
after  he  had  drunk  poison,  and  he  said  he  would  tell  her 

the  story  of  a  Bavarian,  who "     Renstern  stopped — 

death  was  upon  his  cheek — his  eyes  closed.  "  God  of 
mercy  !  "  cried  Ermance  ;  and  she  sprung  to  him.  But 
death  kept  his  prey.  He  was  buried  at  the  old  church- 
yard of  Ranstadt ;  and  Ermance  lived  a  life  of  sorrow, 
loved  and  lamented  by  all,  and  said  daily  masses  for  the 
soul  of  Renstern. 


A   VINDICATION   OF    AUTHORS   AGAINST  THE   VUL- 
GAR CHARGE   OF  POVERTY. 

IT  is  not  very  difficult  to  see  from  what  arose  the  vulgar 
opinion  of  the  poverty  of  authors.    Bad  authors  have  been 


FROM    THE    VULGAR    CHARGE    OF    POVERTY.       213 

always  poor — as  it  is  quite  fair  that  they  should  be ;  upon 
the  same  principle  that  bad  painters,  or  bad  architects,  or 
bad  boot-makers,  or  bad  carpenters,  or  bad  any  things, 
have  been  and  always  must  be  poor;  for  the  rule  applies 
equally  to  tables  and  tragedies,  sermons  and  shoes.  Bad 
writers  have  always  existed  in  a  much  greater  number  than 
good ;  and,  their  works  being  most  deservedly  neglected, 
or  as  deservedly  ridiculed,  they  complained  very  loudly 
and  very  absurdly:  they  were  unfit  for  writing;  therefore 
they  refused  to  turn  bricklayers  :  they  lived  in  poverty, 
and  died  in  want,  because  they  persisted  in  writing  books 
which  nobody  would  read ;  and  the  worse  writers  they 
were,  the  more,  of  course,  they  cried  out  about  the  injus- 
tice with  which  they  were  treated,  and  the  poverty  to 
which  they  were  condemned.  Mr.  D'Israeli  has  compos- 
ed two  corpulent  volumes  about  their  "Calamities,"  to 
which  we  shall  presently  recur ;  and  the  history  must  be 
aJlowed  to  be  sufficiently  melancholy,  though  any  reader 
of  that  diligent  compiler's  "  Calamities  of  Authors"  can- 
not fail  to  be  convinced,  that  all  the  miseries  of  all  these 
gentlemen  arose  from  their  having  mistaken  their  vocation 
— that  they  were  either  utterly  bad  writers,  or  prodigal 
persons,  who  would  have  ruined  themselves  under  any 
circumstances  ;  and  that  a  history  of  the  calamities  of  in- 
capable tailors,  or  inept  shoe-makers,  may  be  made  up  by 
some  one  belonging  to  these  classes  of  operatives,  which 
shall  contain  as  pathetic  pictures  of  the  public  neglect,  or 
condemnation  of  their  works,  as  Mr.  D'Israeli  has  assem- 
bled in  his  collection  of  calamities. 

The  wits  and  satirists  of  the  age  in  which  these  bad 
writers  lived  (for  their  misery,  like  their  existence,  was 
always  forgotten  in  the  next)  found  their  poverty  an  excel- 
lent subject  for  mirth  and  ridicule ;  and,  extending  it  to 
the  whole  tribe  of  authors,  they  consecrated  to  their  use 
forever 

"  Want,  the  garret,  and  the  jail." 


214  A    VINDICATION    OF    AUTHORS 

To  say  nothing  of  the  Greeks,  Horace,  Martial,  Chau- 
cer, Ariosto,  Cervantes,  Spenser,  Shakspeare,  Butler, 
Milton,  Moliere,  Dryden,  Boileau,  Prior,  Swift,  Congreve, 
Addison,  Le  Sage,  Pope,  Gay,  Arbuthnot,  Voltaire,  John- 
son, Fielding,  Smollett,  Rousseau, — comic  writers,  poets, 
epigrammatists,  satirists,  novelists,  wits, — all  have  joined 
in  representing  authors  as  poor,  for  the  sake  of  the  jests 
that  have  since  set  many  a  table  in  a  roar.  But  let  our 
readers  recur  to  our  list,  and  they  will  see  that  the  names 
of  those  who  have  thus  held  up  authors  to  ridicule  are  the 
most  successful  whom  the  Muse  has  "  admitted  of  her 
crew ; "  that  they  are  among  the  most  eminent  names  in 
ancient  and  modern  literature ;  that  they  all  lived  in  com- 
fort, and  some  even  in  opulence  ;  that  those  who  were  not 
rich,  were  poor  from  causes  totally  independent  of  their 
literary  vocation  : — and  let  it  be  remembered  that  no  com- 
plaint has  ever  been  made,  in  prose  or  rhyme,  by  any  au- 
thor, of  the  general  poverty  of  his  tribe,  except  for  the 
sake  of  pointing  a  jest,  or  heightening  a  picture. 

We  might  easily  be  long  and  dull  upon  the  theme,  but 
we  refrain.  We  have  said  enough  to  introduce  our  proofs 
of  the  comfort  or  affluence  in  which  authors  have  lived 
since  the  earliest  days  of  authorship;  and  we  beg  here  to 
premise,  that  we  shall  consider  the  profits  arising  to  au- 
thors from  places  or  pensions  obtained  on  account  of  their 
works,  as  the  legitimate  profits  of  their  writings. 

We  trust  our  readers  will  excuse  us  for  omitting  all  in- 
vestigation into  the  private  circumstances  of  Hermes 
Trismegistus,  the  inventor  of  the  Egyptian  Statutes  at 
Large ;  of  Cadmus,  the  inventor  of  the  Greek  letters,  and 
consequently  the  cause  of  the  introduction  of  birch  into 
English  schools ;  of  Amphion,  Orpheus,  and  other  great 
poets  of  those  days;  and  even  of  Zoroaster,  the  hero  of 
many  a  novel,  and  some  pantomimes.  We  say,  we  trust 
our  readers  will  pardon  us  for  omitting  all  notice  of  these 
gentlemen,  seeing  that  we  write  this  article  in  a  country 


FROM    THE    VULGAR    CHARGE    OF    POVERTY.       215 

town  in  France,  where  we  have  access  to  few  books  of 
any  kind,  and  to  none  at  all  regarding  their  works  or  auto- 
biography. The  most  fastidious  admirer  of  antiquity,  we 
are  persuaded,  will  be  satisfied  with  such  a  respectable  age 
as  that  of  Hesiod  and  Homer,  which  carries  us  back  ten 
centuries  before  the  birth  of  Christ ;  and,  in  taking  this 
for  our  point  of  starting,  we  think  we  may  fairly  be  allow- 
ed to  have  complied  with  the  judicious  advice  given  by 
the  Giant  Moulineau  to  Count  Hamilton's  historiographi- 
cal  ram,  to  "  begin  with  the  beginning." 

The  father  of  Hesiod,  it  is  quite  clear,  left  behind  him 
an  estate  :  this  was  to  have  been  divided  between  the  poet 
and  his  brother  Perses :  the  latter  corrupted  the  judges, 
and  defrauded  him ;  yet,  notwithstanding  this,  he  tells  us 
in  various  passages  of  his  poems,  that  he  was  not  only 
above  want,  but  capable  of  assisting  others.  The  name 
of  Homer  has  passed  into  a  proverb  of  poverty ;  yet  Thes- 
torides  made  a  vast  fortune  by  reciting  the  poems  of  Ho- 
mer as  his  own.  Homer  was  indeed  a  mendicant  for 
some  time ;  but  this  was  only  while  he  was  regarded  as  an 
impostor,  pretending  to  be  the  author  of  poems  which  he 
did  not  compose.  His  subsequent  effusions,  however,  dis- 
closed the  true  author  of  the  Iliad  ;  and  he  died  in  happi- 
ness, affluence,  and  honor. 

Passing  over  the  intervening  centuries,  in  which  no  very 
eminent  names  of  authors  appear,  we  arrive  at  the  fifth 
and  sixth  B.  C.  Anacreon,  according  to  Madame  Dacier, 
was  related  to  Solon,  and  was  consequently  allied  to  the 
Codridse,  the  noblest  family  in  Athens.  Few  events  of 
his  life  are  known ;  but  this  fact  is  enough  to  prove  that  he 
could  not,  at  all  events,  have  been  poor.  We  know,  how- 
ever, that  he  was  the  friend  of  kings — of  Polycrates  and 
Hipparchus :  it  is  pretty  clear  from  his  poems,  that  he 
lived  in  luxury,  which  poor  authors  seldom  do ;  and  his 
death  was  caused  by  swallowing  a  grape-stone  in  drinking 
some  new  wine.  Pindar  was  not  noble,  like  Anacreon ; 


216  A    VINDICATION    OF    AUTHORS 

he  was  even  of  low  origin;  but  this  did  not  prevent  him 
from  being  courted  by  princes,  and  honored  like  a  deity 
in  his  lifetime.  Even  the  priestess  of  Delphi  ordained  him 
a  share  of  the  offerings  to  the  god  :  statue?  were  erected  in 
honor  of  him,  during  his  life,  by  his  patron  Hiero  of  Syra- 
cuse ;  and  he  died  in  a  public  theatre,  which  would  seem 
to  argue  that  his  life  was  not  particularly  unhappy.  The 
brother  of  JEschylus  commanded  a  squadron  of  ships  at  the 
battle  of  Salamis;  the  poet  himself  was  largely  patronized 
by  Hiero  of  Syracuse;  his  funeral  was  splendid,  and  plays 
were  performed  at  his  tomb  in  honor  of  his  memory.  Of 
the  condition  of  Sophocles,  little  is  known ;  but  he  must 
have  been  left  in  easy  circumstances  by  his  father,  since 
the  latter,  according  to  Athenaeus,  was  rich  enough  to  af- 
ford the  vast  expense  of  educating  his  son  in  all  the  polite 
accomplishments  of  his  polite  country :  he  was  taught  music 
and  dancing  by  Lampros,  and  poetry  by  vEschylus.  He 
filled  some  of  the  highest  offices  in  the  state ;  and  Strabo 
mentions  him  as  accompanying  Pericles  in  his  expedition 
to  conquer  the  rebel  Samians.  Herodotus  certainly  had 
the  means  of  travelling  during  a  great  portion  of  his  life ; 
and  he  must  have  been  no  inconsiderable  person,  since 
his  influence  contributed  mainly  to  the  expulsion  of  the 
tyrant  Lygdamis.  Euripides  was  of  noble  descent,  and 
prime  minister  to  Archelaus  of  Macedon.  Thucydides 
was  of  the  royal  blood  of  the  Thracian  kings;  he  had  a 
high  command  in  the  army,  and  joined  to  his  own  afflu- 
ence many  rich  mines  of  gold,  which  he  acquired  by 
marriage.  Plato  was  descended  on  the  paternal  side  from 
Codrus,  on  the  maternal  from  Solon  ;  and  though  it  does 
not  appear  that  he  was  very  wealthy,  it  is  certain  that  he 
lived  delightfully  in  the  elegant  retreat  purchased  with  his 
own  drachmas — 


"  The  olive-grove  of  Academe, 


His  sweet  retirement,  where  the  Attic  bird 
Trilled  her  thick-warbled  notes  the  summer  long.1' 

Paradise  Regained. 


FROM    THE    VULGAR    CHARGE    OF    POVERTY.       217 

There  he  lived,  the  unambitious  friend  and  counsellor  of 
kings,  amidst  his  statues,  his  temples,  and  his  cypresses, 
and,  reposing  by  the  whispering  and  haunted  stream  which 
flowed  through  them,  he  meditated  the  peace  on  earth 
and  happiness  to  men,  which  he  afterwards  taught  in  the 
language  of  the  gods,  whose  eloquence  he  was  said  by  his 
panegyrists  to  have  stolen. 

Descending  to  the  fourth  century  B.  C.,  we  come  to 
Aristophanes ;  but  of  his  circumstances  we  know  noth- 
ing. Even  if  it  were  proved,  however,  that  they  were  in- 
different, we  should  not  be  justified  in  making  him  an  ex- 
ception; for  his  whole  life  was  one  long  and  self-sought 
war  with  powerful  living  adversaries,  and  therefore  could 
not  be  very  happy.  Aristotle,  after  the  death  of  his  friend 
Plato,  visited  Hermias,  king  of  the  Atarnenses.  On  the 
fall  of  the  latter,  he  erected  a  statue  to  him,  and  after- 
wards married  his  sister  Pythias.  He  was,  moreover,  as 
every  one  knows,  the  master  and  the  friend  of  Alexander 
the  Great.  Menander  was  probably  rich,  from  the  fact  of 
his  adoration  of  the  expensive  Glycera:  he  alludes  also 
frequently  to  his  own  habits  of  luxurious  dress.  The  kings 
of  Egypt  and  Macedon  so  highly  honored  and  esteemed 
him,  that  they  sent  ambassadors  to  invite,  and  fleets  to 
convey  him  to  their  courts.  Xenophon  was  of  high  rank, 
a  commander  in  the  army,  and  the  favorite  of  Cyrus;  and 
the  father  of  Demosthenes,  we  know,  left  him  enough  of 
property  to  make  it  worth  his  while  to  plead  for  its  recov- 
ery from  the  hands  of  iniquitous  guardians.  What  a  for- 
tune would  amount  to,  that  should  render  such  a  proceed- 
ing in  a  court  of  equity  at  the  present  day  at  all  judicious, 
our  readers  may  ascertain  by  the  aid  of  a  very  powerful 
calculus. 

In  the  third  and  second  centuries,  we  have  Theocritus, 

who  was  patronized  by  Ptolemy  Philadelphus,  and  lived 

at  his  court ;  Plautus,  a  slave,  who,  after  gaining  a  great 

deal  of  money  by  his  plays,  lost  it  in  commercial  specula- 

19 


218  A    VINDICATION    OF    AUTHORS 

tions;  and  lastly,  Terence,  who,  though  a  slave,  rose  to 
be  the  intimate  friend  of  Scipio  and  Lselius,  and  whose 
wealth,  gained  by  his  comedies,  enabled  him  to  mnrry  his 
daughter  to  a  Roman  noble.  He  received  three  thousand 
sesterces  for  one  performance  of  "  The  Eunuch  "  alone  ; 
and  as  it  was  usual  to  pay  the  author  of  a  play  each  time 
it  was  performed,  the  sums  which  Terence  received  must 
have  been  enormous.  He  left  a  splendid  house  and 
gardens. 

The  first  century  B.  C.,  and  the  first  after,  present  us 
with  a  long  list  of  noble  and  opulent  authors.  Of  the  life 
of  Lucretius  few  particulars  are  known.  Cicero  was  of  a 
noble  family ;  he  was  successively  quaestor,  praetor,  and 
consul,  and  might  have  been  a  fourth  party  in  the  govern- 
ment formed  by  Pompey,  Caesar,  and  Crassus.  His  wealth 
must  have  been  great ;  for  he  gave  for  his  house  on  the 
Palatine,  alone,  a  sum  exceeding  £  30,000  sterling.  The 
father  of  Catullus  was  the  friend  of  Julius  Caesar  ;  Catullus 
himself  was  praetor,  and  afterwards  governor  of  Bithynia; 
and  Lesbia  was  the  sister  of  the  noble  and  rich  CIo- 
dius,  the  enemy  of  Cicero.  Virgil  inherited  a  patrimony 
from  his  father  at  Mantua ;  was  enriched  by  Augustus, 
and  received  a  sum  equivalent  to  ,£2000  sterling  for  his 
verses  about  Marcellus  alone.  Tibullus  was  the  son  of  a 
knight  and  a  man  of  fortune.  Propertius  was  also  noble, 
and  possessed  of  a  considerable  estate ;  he  was  the  friend 
of  Maecenas  and  Gallus.  Horace  was,  to  be  sure,  the  son 
of  a  frcedman  ;  but  that  freedman  was  a  tax-gatherer,  and, 
it  is  almost  needless  to  say,  rich.  His  father's  estate  was, 
for  some  reason  or  no  reason,  confiscated  by  the  govern- 
ment, but  restored  to  Horace  by  Augustus.  The  emperor 
offered  him  the  office  of  private  secretary ;  but  he  refused 
all  court  honors.  Ovid  was  the  younger  son  of  a  Roman 
noble,  and,  on  the  death  of  his  elder  brother,  inherited  his 
fortune.  Livy  was  of  an  illustrious  and  wealthy  family, 
which  had  given  many  consuls  to  Rome.  Seneca,  the 


FROM    THE    VULGAR    CHARGE    OF    POVERTY.       219 

tutor  of  Nero,  was  quaestor,  praetor,  and  consul.  His 
houses,  gardens,  and  walks,  were  the  most  magnificent  in 
Rome ;  and  he  had  received  of  the  public  money  more 
than  two  millions  and  a  half  sterling  in  about  four  years. 
Persius  was  opulent,  and  bequeathed  a  large  fortune  to 
his  friend  Cornutus.  Pliny  the  Elder  arrived  at  the  high 
dignity  of  augur  :  he  was  procurator,  or  treasurer,  to  Tibe- 
rius, and  was  offered  for  part  of  his  MSS.  400,000  ses- 
terces. Juvenal's  father  was  a  freedman — a  class  generally 
rich  at  Rome.  He,  at  all  events,  gave  his  son  a  liberal 
and  learned  education.  Pliny  the  Younger  was  augur, 
consul,  proconsul  of  Bithynia,  and  the  friend  of  Trajan. 
Martial  was  ennobled  by  Domitian,  and  married  a  wife  so 
rich,  that  (to  use  his  own  words)  "  she  made  him  a  kind 
of  monarch."  Quinctilian  was  paid  liberally  out  of  the 
public  treasury  for  teaching  oratory  under  Galba :  he  was 
patronized  by  Domitian,  became  consul,  and  died  rich. 
Tacitus  was  son-in-law  of  Agricola,  and  patronized  by 
Vespasian,  Titus,  and  Domitian.  It  may  be  inferred  that 
his  family  was  wealthy  and  powerful,  from  the  fact  that 
M.  Claudius  Tacitus,  who  was  created  emperor  in  A.  D. 
275,  was  descended  from  him.  The  father  of  Lucan,  a 
Roman  knight,  was  brother  to  Seneca,  one  of  the  wealth- 
iest men  in  Rome.  Lucan  himself  was  opulent,  and  fill- 
ed the  offices  of  qurestor  and  augur. 

The  second,  third,  fourth,  fifth,  sixth,  and  seventh  cen- 
turies after  Christ  do  not  present  us  with  many  names : 
we  shall  therefore  class  them  all  in  one  paragraph,  which 
will  bring  us  down  to  modern  authors. 

Plutarch  was  of  an  old  family ;  his  lectures  were  highly 
popular  with  the  Roman  nobility,  and  he  was  the  friend 
of  Trajan.  Apuleius  was  a  successful  lawyer,  and  mar- 
ried a  very  rich  widow.  Longinus  was  tutor  to  the  chil- 
dren of  Zenobia.  Mahomet  was  related  to  the  heads  of 
one  of  the  noblest  and  wealthiest  of  the  Arab  tribes ;  and 
he  himself  was  as  wealthy  as  he  was  successful. 


220  A    VINDICATION    Of    AUTHORS 

The  eleventh,  twelfth,  thirteenth,  and  fourteenth  centu- 
ries we  shall  gather,  like  the  last,  under  a  single  head. 

Dante  was  descended  from  one  of  the  greatest  families 
in  Florence,  and  held  a  distinguished  place  at  his  native 
city.  It  is  true  that  the  political  events  of  his  time,  in 
which  he  mingled,  occasioned  his  exile  and  poverty ;  but 
he  died  in  a  palace.  Petrarch  was  the  son  of  a  wealthy 
Italian  notary.  He  was  the  friend  of  the  Colonnas,  and 
resided  in  their  palaces,  and  was  familiar  with  kings, 
emperors,  and  pontiffs.  Boccaccio  was  the  son  of  a  Flor- 
entine merchant,  when  merchants  were  princes:  he  in- 
herited property  from  his  father,  and  was  beloved  by  the 
daughter  of  the  king  (Robert),  who  was  his  patron.  Chau- 
cer, according  to  Leland,  was  of  noble  origin :  he  was  ap- 
pointed ambassador  to  Genoa,  by  Edward  III.,  and  possess- 
ed <£1000  a  year — an  enormous  income  for  that  period. 

We  have  now  arrived  at  the  fifteenth  century.  Pulci 
was  the  intimate  and  jocular  friend  of  Lorenzo  the  Mag- 
nificent. Sannazaro  was  patronized  by  Frederic,  son  of 
the  king  of  Naples,  from  whom  he  received  a  pension  and 
the  beautiful  country-house  of  Mergellina ;  he  was  courted 
by  all  the  great  of  his  time,  and  enjoyed  the  friendship  of 
two  popes.  Marot  lived  among  princes.  Erasmus  was 
not  rich  ;  but  then  he  never  lived  long  in  one  place,  and 
always  expensively  and  luxuriously.  Macchiavelli  was 
secretary  of  the  Florentine  republic.  Bojarda  was  a  man 
of  large  possessions,  and  count  of  Scandiano.  Ariosto 
was  of  a  noble  family,  was  patronized  by  the  Este  family, 
and  by  Leo  X. ;  and  he  must  have  had  some  pretensions  to 
wealth  and  influence,  since  he  expected  a  cardinal's  hat. 
Guicciardini  was  of  a  noble  Florentine  family,  the  chief 
counsellor  in  Florence,  married  the  daughter  of  the  most 
distinguished  person  there,  and  was  created  governor  of 
Bologna  by  the  pope.  Rabelais  lived  a  joyous  and  luxurious 
life,  both  as  a  Benedictine  monk,  and  as  cure  of  Meudon. 

We  are  rapidly  approaching  more  familiar  names ;  for 


FROM    THE    VULGAll    CHARGE    OF    POVERTY.       221 

we  are  now  arrived  at  the  sixteenth  century.  Buchanan 
is  the  first.  Though  tutor  to  a  prince  and  to  the  most  in- 
teresting and  seductive  of  queens,  we  fear  his  temper  and 
his  tastes  were  too  much  like  those  of  Erasmus  to  allow 
us  to  class  him  with  the  rich  in  our  catalogue.  He  was, 
moreover,  addicted  to  personalities  and  to  quarrels,  which 
made  him  disliked  in  his  own  country,  and  caused  him  to 
be  persecuted  in  others.  The  name  which  comes  next  in 
our  catalogue  has  passed  into  a  proverb  of  poverty — but 
unjustly.  The  misfortunes  of  Camoens  arose  from  causes 
altogether  independent  of  his  literary  pursuits.  If  he  met 
with  misfortunes,  his  poetical  genius,  so  far  from  being 
the  cause  of  them,  tended  to  alleviate  their  bitterness, 
and  gained  him  honor,  friends,  and  (at  one  time)  riches. 
Montaigne  was  a  country  gentleman  of  fortune.  Tasso 
was  courted  and  happy  up  to  the  period  of  his  insanity ; 
for  he  was  undoubtedly  insane.  Cervantes  was  chamber- 
lain to  one  cardinal,  pensioned  by  another,  and  patronized 
by  a  viceroy ;  and  his  "  Don  Quixote "  was  so  popular, 
that  12,000  copies  of  the  first  part  were  sold  before  the 
second  was  printed.  Sydney  was  a  candidate  for  the 
crown  of  Poland.  Spenser  had  fifty  pounds  a  year  as 
poet  laureate  (no  inconsiderable  sum  in  those  days) ; 
he  was  sheriff  of  Cork,  with  3000  acres  of  land ;  and 
was  patronized  by  Elizabeth,  Lord.  Essex,  and  the  noble 
family  to  which  he  belonged.  De  Thou  and  Sully 
were  statesmen.  Bacon  was  lord  chancellor  of  England, 
and  enormously  rich.  Lope  de  Vega  was  a  knight  of 
Malta,  and  held  a  rich  office  under  Urban  VIII.  Cal- 
deron  de  la  Barca  was  first  a  knight  of  St.  lago,  and  af- 
terwards a  fat  and  comfortable  canon  of  Toledo.  To  re- 
turn to  our  own  authors — Shakspeare  made  a  fortune,  and 
died  the  richest  man  in  Stratford-upon-Avon.  Jonson 
gained  prodigious  sums  by  his  plays,  though  his  extrava- 
gant and  careless  life  made  him  always  poor.  Little  is 
known  of  the  private  lives  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher; 
19* 


222  A    VINDICATION    OF    AUTHORS 

but  we  know  that  Beaumont's  father  was  a  judge,  and 
Fletcher's  a  bishop.  Grotius  was  a  wealthy  lawyer  and 
statesman ;  Selden  a  member  of  parliament.  Of  Massin- 
ger  we  know  nothing  but  that  his  plays  were  popular.  Of 
Ford  we  know  almost  as  little ;  but,  at  all  events,  he  was 
the  son  of  a  justice  of  the  peace.  Butler's  misfortunes 
were  owing  to  the  times,  and  the  character  of  the  reign- 
ing monarch ;  and  £  3000  were  ordered  to  be  paid  to  the 
author  of  "  Hudibras,"  though  he  never  received  the 
money.  Hobbes  lived  in  easy  circumstances  at  Cha-ts- 
worth.  Even  after  Charles  withdrew  his  patronage  from 
him,  he  was  visited,  in  his  old  age,  by  the  most  illustrious 
men  of  his  time,  and  by  princes  and  ambassadors.  Sir 
Thomas  Drown  was  a  wealthy  physician.  Waller  was 
rich,  a  member  of  parliament,  and  a  favorite  at  court. 
Corneille  was  not  only  the  most  successful  author  of  his 
day,  but  he  was  pensioned  by  Richelieu.  Milton  left  be- 
hind him  ,£1500  ;  but  even  if  it  could  be  shown  that  he 
was  poor,  his  persecutions  on  political  accounts,  and  the 
fanaticism  of  the  times,  would  account  for  his  poverty. 
Cowley  lived  in  elegant  retirement,  and  his  poetry  was 
eminently  successful.  Moliere  was  poor,  till  he  made  a 
fortune  by  his  plays.  La  Fontaine  was  a  gentleman,  and 
married  a  rich  wife.  Jeremy  Taylor  was  a  bishop.  Dry- 
den  was  a  person  of  old  family ;  and  he  gained  by  his 
writings,  at  least,  £ 500  a  year;  equal  to  .£1500  at  the 
present  day.  Boileau  gained  an  ample  pension  by  his 
writings ;  so  did  Racine.  Bayle's  works  caused  him 
twice  to  be  chosen  professor  of  philosophy.  Fenelon  was 
a  rich  archbishop.  Prior  was  an  ambassador.  Swift  died 
rich  ;  so  did  Congreve,  Addison,  Gay,  and  Pope.  Le  Sage 
was  the  most  popular  of  novel-writers,  and  an  eminently- 
successful  dramatist.  When  Steele  lost  the  patent  of  his 
theatre,  he  computed  the  loss  at  ten  thousand  pounds. 
Marivaux  was  one  of  the  most  successful  of  authors. 
Arbuthnot  was  the  court  physician.  Vanbrugh  was  poor, 


FROM    THE    VULGAR    CHARGE    OF    POVERTY.       2&3 

but  this  was  in  spite  of  his  success  as  an  author  and  archi 
tect,  and  his  enjoyment  of  some  of  the  most  lucrative 
situations  under  the  crown.  Richardson  died  as  rich  as 
a  Jew ;  so  did  Voltaire. 

We  now  arrive  at  the  eighteenth  century.  Thomson, 
in  spite  of  his  indolence,  obtained  several  lucrative  situa- 
tions under  government,  in  consequence  of  his  works. 
Dr.  Johnson  got  a  pension,  and  might  have  become  rich 
by  means  of  his  writings,  had  he  not  been  the  most  indo- 
lent of  authors.  Franklin  raised  himself  by  his  literary 
talents.  Fielding's  profuse  extravagance  swallowed  up 
the  profits  of  his  successes  as  an  author;  but  he  died 
a  justice  of  the  peace.  Linnaeus  had  a  grant  of  land 
conferred  on  him  for  his  discoveries,  and  he  was  en- 
nobled by  the  king  of  Sweden.  Hume  had  nothing, 
till  his  works  procured  him  ,£1000  a  year.  Rous- 
seau's name  is  not  worth  mentioning  here  :  his  miseries 
and  poverty  were  voluntary.  Grimm  and  Diderot  received 
large  pensions  for  their  literary  merits.  Sterne  passed  his 
life  in  painting,  fiddling,  and  shooting — occupations  not 
at  all  indicative  of  poverty.  Garrick,  who  died  very  rich, 
made  his  fortune  as  an  author  and  actor.  Smollett  receiv- 
ed large  sums  for  all  his  works.  Goldsmith  was  in  the 
last  stage  of  poverty,  till  his  writings  raised  him  to  inde- 
pendence. Burke  was  a  statesman.  Cowper  received 
vast  sums  for  his  works;  so  did  Gibbon  ;  yet  Cowper  had 
a  private  fortune,  and  Gibbon  had  held  lucrative  situations 
under  the  crown.  Chatterton,  indeed,  died  poor;  but  he 
had  employment  from  his  literary  patrons  as  long  as  he 
chose  to  accept  it.  Burns  was  poor,  not  in  consequence 
of  being  an  author,  but  in  spite  of  it.  Schiller,  Goethe, 
and  Werner,  were  all  enriched  or  ennobled  by  their  poetry. 

Here  we  close  our  catalogue;  for  we  do  not  venture  to 
quote  instances  from  the  writers  of  our  own  times.  But 
it  may  be  stated  in  general,  and  hundreds  of  instances 
will  occur  to  the  memory  of  every  one,  that  there  ip 


224  A    VINDICATION    OF    AUTHORS 

scarcely  one  eminent  individual  of  the  present  day,  who 
does  not  owe  his  riches,  or  rise,  or  distinctions,  in  some 
way  to  literature.  Let  our  readers  refer  to  the  list  we 
have  given  above,  and  they  will  see  that  scarcely  one 
great,  or  even  second-rate  name  in  literature  has  been 
omitted,  and  that  on  not  one  can  the  reproach  of  poverty 
in  consequence  of  authorship  fall ;  while  it  will  be  uni- 
formly seen  that  literary  merit  has  been  always  of  advan- 
tage to  those  who  were  unfortunate  from  other  causes. 
We  have  carefully  looked  over  Mr.  D'Israeli's  "  Calami- 
ties of  Authors,"  and  have  found,  without  one  exception, 
either  that  the  authors  who  suffered  the  calamities  in  ques- 
tion were  bad  authors — persons  who  were  not  in  their 
"  vocation  " — intruders  without  the  wedding  garment — 
who  of  course  deserved  to  suffer  for  their  want  of  due 
qualifications — or  that  the  "calamities"  alluded  to  con- 
sisted in  a  little  gentle  castigation  in  reviews — ridicule 
in  popular  novels — or  the  infliction  of  a  satirical  couplet. 
Verily  these  be  great  "  calamities,"  Mr.  D'Israeli ! 

"  It  is  not  in  our  bond "  to  show,  that  not  only  good 
authors  have  never  been  poor,  but  that  they  have  been, 
frequently,  persons  of  noble  or  distinguished  families, 
people  of  title,  and  even  of  royal  blood.  We  shall,  never- 
theless, refer  our  readers  to  the  brief  notices  of  authors 
which  have  been  already  given,  to  show  that  authors  have 
in  general  been  gentlemen ;  and  that  the  Greek  and  Ro- 
man writers  were  generally  noble  or  royal ;  but  we  have 
not  room  for  a  list  of  our  own  noble  and  royal  authors. 
Walpole's  work  under  that  title,  will  furnish  them  with  a 
list  of  more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  literary  names 
which  have  been  illustrated  by  high  birth  ;  and  if  the 
catalogue  were  continued  down  to  our  own  days,  the  pro- 
portion would  be  increased  rather  than  diminished. 


COURTSHIP    AND    MARRIAGE.  225 


COURTSHIP    AND    MARRIAGE. 

THERE  lived  in  a  country  not  a  thousand  miles  from 
Edinburgh,  a  decent  farmer,  who,  by  patient  industry  and 
frugality,  and  without  being  avaricious,  head  made  himself 
easy  in  circumstances.  He  enjoyed  life  without  being 
profuse  ;  for  he  tempered  his  enjoyments  with  moderation. 
At  the  age  of  sixty,  lie  still  retained  the  bloom  of  health 
on  his  cheek.  He  lived  till  that  age  a  bachelor  ;  but  his 
household  affairs  were  regulated  by  a  young  woman, 
whose  attentive  zeal  for  her  master's  interest  made  it 
easy  for  him  to  enjoy  his  home  without  a  wife.  She  was 
only  in  the  character  of  his  humble  servant,  but  she  was 
virtuous  and  prudent.  Betty  allotted  the  tasks  to  the  ser- 
vants in  the  house,  performed  the  labor  within  doors,  dur- 
ing harvest,  when  all  the  others  were  engaged.  She  saw 
every  thing  kept  in  order,  and  regulated  all  with  strict  re- 
gard to  economy  and  cleanliness.  She  had  the  singular 
good  fortune  to  be  at  once  beloved  by  her  fellow-servants, 
as  well  as  respected  and  trusted  by  her  master.  Her 
master  even  consulted  her  in  matters  where  he  knew 
she  could  give  advice,  and  found  it  often  his  interest  to  do 
so.  But  her  modesty  was  such,  that  she  never  tendered 
her  advices  gratuitously.  Prudence  regulated  all  her 
actions,  and  she  kept  the  most  respectful  distance  from  her 
master.  She  paid  all  attention  to  his  wants  and  wishes  ; 
nor  could  a  wife  or  daughter  have  been  more  attentive. 
When  he  happened  to  be  from  home,  it  was  her  province 
to  wait  upon  him  when  he  returned,  provide  his  refresh- 
ment, and  administer  to  all  his  wants.  Then  she  reported 
to  him  the  occurrences  of  the  day,  and  the  work  which 
had  been  done.  It  did  not  escape  her  master's  observa- 
tion, however,  that,  though  she  was  anxious  to  relate 
the  truth,  she  still  strove  to  extenuate  and  hide  the  faults 


226  COURTSHIP    AND    MARRIAGE. 

of  those  who  had  committed  misdemeanors.  Her  whole 
conduct  was  such,  that,  for  the  period  of  fifteen  years, 
the  breath  of  slander  dared  not  to  hazard  a  whisper 
against  her. 

It  happened,  however,  that  a  certain  maiden  lady  in 
the  neighborhood  had  cast  an  eye  upon  the  fanner.  She 
was  the  niece  of  a  bachelor  minister,  and  lived  at  the 
manse  in  the  character  of  housekeeper.  But,  with  all  op- 
portunity to  become  a  competitor  with  Betty,  she  could 
never  gain  her  character.  Those  people  who  want  per- 
sonal attractions  take  strange  means  of  paying  court,  and 
endeavoring  to  open  the  way  for  themselves.  What  they 
cannot  effect  by  treaty,  they  endeavor  to  do  by  sapping. 
Scandal  is  their  magazine,  by  which  they  attempt  to 
clear  their  way  from  all  obstructions.  This  maiden  lady 
made  some  sinister  remarks,  in  such  a  way,  and  in  such 
a  place,  as  were  sure  to  reach  the  farmer's  ear.  The  far- 
mer was  nearly  as  much  interested  for  the  character  of 
his  servant  as  he  was  for  his  own,  and  so  soon  as  he  dis- 
covered the  authoress,  made  her  a  suitable  return.  But 
he  made  ample  amends  to  Betty  for  the  injury  she  had 
suffered,  and,  at  the  same  time,  rewarded  her  for  her  ser- 
vices, by  taking  her  for  his  wife.  By  this  event,  the  lady, 
whose  intentions  had  been  well  understood,  and  who  had 
thought  of  aggrandizing  herself  at  the  expense  and  ruin 
of  poor  Betty,  found  that  she  had  contributed  the  very 
means  to  advance  her  to  the  realization  of  a  fortune  she 
had  never  hoped  for.  May  all  intermeddlers  of  the  same 
cast  have  the  same  punishment :  they  are  pests  to  society. 

Betty's  success  had  created  some  speculation  in  the 
country.  Though  every  one  agreed  that  Betty  deserved 
her  fortune,  it  was  often  wondered  how  such  a  modest, 
unassuming  girl  had  softened  the  heart  of  the  bachelor, 
who,  it  was  thought,  was  rather  flinty  in  regard  to  the  fair 
sex.  Betty  had  an  acquaintance,  who  was  situated  in 
nearly  the  same  circumstances  as  herself,  in  being  at  the 


COURTSHIP    AND    MARRIAGE.  227 

head  of  a  bachelor  farmer's  house  ;  but  it  would  appear 
that  she  had  formed  a  design  of  conquering  her  master. 
If  Betty  used  artifice,  however,  it  was  without  design. 
But  her  neighbor  could  not,  it  would  appear,  believe  that 
she  had  brought  the  matter  to  a  bearing  without  some 
stratagem ;  and  she  wished  Betty  to  tell  her  how  she  had 
gone  about  "  courting  the  old  man."  There  was,  withal, 
so  much  native  simplicity  about  Betty,  and  the  manner 
of  relating  her  own  courtship  and  marriage  is  so  like  her- 
self, that  it  would  lose  its  naivete  unless  told  in  her  own 
homely  Scotch  way.  Betty,  into  all,  had  a  lisp  in  her 
speech,  that  is,  a  defect  in  speech,  by  which  the  s  is  always 
pronounced  as  tit,  which  added  a  still  deeper  shade  of 
simplicity  to  her  manner ;  but  it  would  be  trifling  to  suit 
the  orthography  to  that  common  defect.  The  reader  can 
easily  suppose  that  he  hears  Betty  lisping,  while  she  is 
relating  her  story  to  her  attentive  friend. 

"  Weel,  Betty,"  says  her  acquaintance,  "  come,  gi'e 
me  a  sketch,  an'  tell  me  a'  about  it ;  for  I  may  ha'e  a 
chance  mysel'.  We  dinna  ken  what's  afore  us.  We're 
no  the  waur  o'  ha'ein'  somebody  to  tell  us  the  road,  whan 
we  dinna  ken  a'  the  cruiks  and  thraws  in't."  "  Deed," 
says  Betty,  "  there  was  little  about  it  ava.  Our  maister 
was  awa  at  the  fair  ae  day  selling  the  lambs,  and  it  was 
gey  late  afore  he  cam'  hame.  Our  maister  verra  seldom 
steys  late,  for  he's  a  douce  man  as  can  be.  Weel,  ye  see, 
he  was  mair  herty  than  I  had  seen  him  for  a  lang  time ; 
but  I  opine  he  had  a  gude  merket  for  his  lambs,  and  ther's 
room  for  excuse  whan  ane  drives  a  gude  bergen.  Indeed, 
to  tell  even  on  truth,  he  had  rather  better  than  a  wee  drap 
in  his  e'e.  It  was  my  usual  to  sit  up  till  he  cam'  hame, 
when  he  was  awa.  When  he  cam'  in  and  gaed  up  stairs, 
he  fand  his  sipper  ready  for  him.  '  Betty,'  says  he,  very 
saft-like.  '  Sir,'  says  I.  '  Betty,'  says  he, '  what  has  been 
gaun  on  the  day — a's  right,  I  houp?  '  '  Ouy,  sir,'  says  I. 
'  Very  weel,  very  weel,'  says  he,  in  his  ain  canny  way. 


228  COURTSHIP    AND    MARRIAGE. 

He  ga'e  me  a  clap  on  the  shouther,  and  said  I  was  a  gude 
lassie.  When  I  had  telt  him  a'  that  had  been  dune  throu' 
the  day,  just  as  I  aye  did,  he  ga'e  me  another  clap  on  the 
shouther,  and  said  he  was  a  fortunate  man  to  ha'e  sic  a 
carefu'  person  about  the  house.  I  never  had  heard  him  say 
as  muckle  to  my  face  before,  tho'  he  aften  said  mair  ahint 
my  back.  I  really  thocht  he  was  fey.  Our  maister,  when  he 
had  gotten  his  sipper  finished,  began  to  be  verra  joky  ways, 
and  said  that  I  was  baith  a  gude  and  bonny  lassie.  I  kent 
that  folks  arna'  themsels  whan  in  drink,  and  they  say  rath- 
er mair  than  they  wad  do  if  they  were  sober.  Sae  I  cam' 
awa'  doon  into  the  kitchen. 

"  Twa  or  three  days  after  that,  our  maister  cam'  into 
the  kitchen — '  Betty,'  says  he.  '  Sir,'  says  I.  '  Betty,' 
says  he,  '  come  up  stairs  ;  I  want  to  speak  t'ye,'  says  he. 
'  Verra  weel,  sir,'  says  I.  Sae  I  went  up  stairs  after  him, 
thinking  a'  the  road  that  he  was  gaun  to  tell  me  something 
about  the  feeding  o'  the  swine,  or  killing  the  heefer,  or 
something  like  that.  But  whan  he  telt  me  to  sit  doun,  I 
saw  there  was  something  serious,  for  he  never  bad  me  sit 
doun  afore  but  ance,  and  that  was  whan  he  was  gaun  to 
Glasgow  fair.  '  Betty,'  says  he,  '  ye  ha'e  been  lang  a  ser- 
vant to  me,'  says  he,  '  and  a  gude  and  honest  servant. 
Since  ye're  sae  gude  a  servant,  I  aften  think  ye'll  make  a 
better  wife.  Ha'e  ye  ony  objection  to  be  a  wife,  Betty  ?  ' 
says  he.  '  I  dinna  ken,  sir,'  says  I.  '  A  body  canna  just 
say  hou  they  like  a  bargain  till  they  see  the  article.' 
'  Weel,  Betty,'  says  he,  '  ye're  verra  right  there  again.  I 
ha'e  had  ye  for  a  servant  these  fifteen  years,  and  I  never 
knew  that  I  could  find  fau't  wi'  ye  for  onything.  Ye're 

carefu',  honest,   an'  attentif,   an' .'     '  O,  sir,'   says  I, 

*  ye  always  paid  me  for't,  and  it  was  only  my  duty.' 
'  Weel,  weel,'  says  he,  '  Betty,  that's  true ;  but  then  I 
mean  to  mak'  amens  t'ye  for  the  evil  speculation  that  Tib- 
by  Langtongue  raised  about  you  and  me,  and  forby,  the 
warld  are  taking  the  same  liberty :  sae,  to  stop  a'  their 


COURTSHIP    AND    MARRIAGE.  229 

mouths,  you  and  I  sail  be  married.'  '  Verra  weel,  sir,' 
says  1  ;  for  what  cou'd  I  say  1 

"Our  maister  looks  into  the  kitchen  another  day,  an' 
says,  '  Betty,'  says  he.  '  Sir,'  says  I.  '  Betty,'  says  he, 
'  I  am  gaun  to  gi'e  in  our  names  to  be  cried  in  the  kirk, 
this  and  next  Sabbath.'  '  Verra  weel,  sir,'  says  I. 

"  About  eight  days  after  this,  our  maister  says  to  me, 
'  Betty,'  says  he.  '  Sir,'  says  I.  '  I  think,'  says  he,  '  we 
will  ha'e  the  marriage  put  owre  neist  Friday,  if  ye  ha'e 
nae  objection.'  '  Verra  weel,  sir,'  says  I.  '  And  ye'll 
tak'  the  grey  yad,  and  gang  to  the  toun  on  Monday, 
an'  get  your  bits  o'  wedding  braws.  I  ha'e  spoken  to  Mr. 
Cheap,  the  draper,  and  ye  can  tak'  aff  onything  ye  want, 
an'  please  yoursell,  for  I  canna  get  awa  that  day.'  '  Ver- 
ra weel,  sir,'  says  I. 

"  Sae  I  gaed  awa  to  the  toun  on  Monday,  an'  bought 
some  wee  bits  o'  things  ;  but  I  had  plenty  o'  claes,  and  I 
cou'dna  think  o'  being  'stravagant.  I  took  them  to  the 
manty-maker,  to  get  made,  and  they  were  sent  hame  on 
Thursday. 

"  On  Thursday  night,  our  maister  says  to  me,  '  Betty,' 
says  he.  '  Sir,'  says  I.  '  To-morrow  is  our  wedding-day,' 
says  he,  '  an'  ye  maun  see  that  a'  things  are  prepared  for 
the  denner,'  says  he,  '  an'  see  every  thing  dune  yoursel,' 
says  he,  '  for  I  expect  some  company,  an'  I  wad  like  to 
see  every  thing  feat  and  tiddy  in  your  ain  way,'  says  he. 
'  Very  weel,  sir,'  says  I. 

"  I  had  never  ta'en  a  serious  thought  about  the  matter 
till  now  ;  and  I  began  to  consider  that  I  must  exert  mysel 
to  please  my  maister  and  the  company.  Sae  I  got 
every  thing  in  readiness,  and  got  every  thing  clean — I 
cou'dna  think  ought  was  dune  right  except  my  ain  hand 
was  in't. 

"  On  Friday  morning,  our  maister  says  to  me,  '  Betty,' 
says  he.  '  Sir,'  says  I.  l  Go  away  and  get  yoursel  dress- 
ed,' says  he, '  for  the  company  will  soon  be  here,  and  ye 
20 


230  COURTSHIP    AND    MARRIAGE. 

maun  be  decent.  An'  ye  maun  stay  in  the  room  up  stairs,' 
says  he,  '  till  ye're  sent  for,'  says  he.  '  Verra  \veel,  sir,' 
says  I.  But  there  was  sic  a  great  deal  to  do,  and  sae 
many  grand  dishes  to  prepare  for  the  dinner  to  the  com- 
pany, that  I  could  not  get  awa',  and  the  hail  folk  were 
come  afore  I  got  mysel  dressed. 

"  Our  maister  cam'  doun  stairs,  and  telt  me  to  go  up 
that  instant  and  dress  mysel,  for  the  minister  was  jusf 
comin  doun  the  loan.  Sae  I  was  obliged  to  leave  every 
thing  to  the  rest  of  the  servants,  an'  gang  up  stairs,  an' 
pit  on  my  claes. 

"  When  I  was  wanted,  Mr.  Brown  o'  the  Haaslybrae 
cam'  and  took  me  into  the  room  among  a'  the  gran'  fouk, 
an'  the  minister.  I  was  maist  like  to  fent ;  for  I  never 
saw  sae  mony  gran'  folk  together  a'  my  born  days  afore, 
an'  I  didna  ken  whar  to  look.  At  last,  our  maister  took 
me  by  the  han',  an'  I  was  greatly  relieved.  The  minister 
said  a  great  deal  to  us — but  I  canna  mind  it  a' — and  then 
he  said  a  prayer.  After  this,  I  thought  I  should  ha'e  been 
worried  wi'  folk  kissing  me, — mony  a  yin  shook  hands 
wi'  me  I  had  never  seen  afore,  and  wished  me  much  joy. 

"  After  the  ceremony  was  o'er,  I  slipped  awa'  doun 
into  the  kitchen  again  amang  the  rest  o'  the  servants  to 
see  if  the  dinner  was  a'  right.  But  in  a  wee  time  our 
maister  cam'  into  the  kitchen,  an'  says,  '  Betty,'  says  he. 
'  Sir,'  says  I.  '  Betty,'  says  he,  '  ye  must  consider  that 
ye're  no  longer  my  servant,  but  my  wife,'  says  he ;  '  and 
therefore  ye  must  come  up  stairs  and  sit  amongst  the  rest 
of  the  company,'  says  he.  'Verra  weel,  sir,'  says  I.  Sae 
what  could  I  do,  but  gang  up  stairs  to  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany, an'  sit  doun  among  them  ?  I  sat  there  in  a  corner, 
as  weel  out  o'  sight  as  I  could,  for  they  were  a'  speaking 
to  me  or  looking  at  me,  an'  I  didna  ken  how  to  behave 
amang  sic  braw  company,  or  how  to  answer  them.  I  sat 
there  till  it  was  gey  late,  and  our  maister  made  me  drink 
the  company's  healths,  and  they  gaed  a'  away. 


THE    PLAY    AT    VENICE.  231 

"  When  the  company  were  a'  gaen  awa',  I  went  doun 
to  the  kitchen,  and  saw  that  every  thing  was  right;  and 
after  I  put  a  candle  into  my  maister's  bed-room,  I  took  an- 
other, and  gaed  away  up  to  my  ain  wee  room  in  the  garret. 
Just  whan  I  was  casting  aff  my  shune,  I  hears  our  maister 
first  gang  into  his  ain  room,  and  then  come  straight  awa' 
up  towards  mine.  I  think  I  can  hear  him  yet,  for  it  was 
siccan  extraord'nar  thing,  and  I  never  saw  him  there  afore  ; 
and  every  stamp  o'  his  feet  gaed  thunt,  thunt  to  my  very 
hert.  He  stood  at  the  cheek  o'  the  door,  and  said,  very 
saftly,  '  Betty,'  says  he.  '  Sir,'  says  I — '  But  what  brought 
ye  here,  sir,'  says  I.  '  Naething,'  says  he.  '  Verra  weel, 
naething  be  it,  sir,'  says  I.  '  But,'  says  he,  '  remember 
that  ye're  no  longer  my  servant,  but  my  wife,'  says  he. 
'  Verra  weel,  sir,'  says  I ;  'I  will  remember  that.'  '  And 
ye  must  come  down  stairs,'  says  he.  '  Verra  weel,  sir,' 
says  I ;  for  what  could  I  do  ?  I  had  always  obeyed  my 
maister  before,  and  it  was  nae  time  to  disobey  him  now. 

"  Sae,  Jean,  that  was  a'  that  was  about  my  courtship 
or  marriage." 


THE   PLAY    AT    VENICE. 

SOME  years  since,  a  German  prince,  making  a  tour 
of  Europe,  stopped  at  Venice  for  a  short  period.  It  was 
the  close  of  summer  ;  the  Adriatic  was  calm,  the  nights 
were  lovely,  and  the  Venetian  women  in  the  full  enjoyment 
of  those  delicious  spirits,  that,  in  their  climate,  rise  and 
fall  with  the  coming  and  the  departure  of  the  finest  season 
of  the  year.  Every  day  was  given  by  the  illustrious 
stranger  to  research  among  the  records  and  antiquities  of 
this  singular  city,  and  every  night  to  parties  on  the  Bren- 


THE    PLAY    AT    VENICE. 

ta.  When  the  morning  was  nigh,  it  was  the  custom  to 
return  from  the  water  to  sup  at  some  of  the  palaces  of  the 
nobility. 

In  the  commencement  of  his  intercourse,  all  national 
distinctions  were  carefully  suppressed;  but,  as  his  inti- 
macy increased,  he  was  forced  to  see  the  lurking  vanity 
of  the  Italian  breaking  out.  One  of  its  most  frequent 
exhibitions  was  in  the  little  dramas  that  wound  up  these 
stately  festivals.  The  wit  was  constantly  sharpened  by 
some  contrast  of  the  Italian  and  the  German,  some  slight 
aspersions  on  Teutonic  rudeness,  some  remark  on  the 
history  of  a  people  untouched  by  the  elegance  of  southern 
manners.  The  sarcasm  was  conveyed  with  Italian  grace, 
and  the  offence  softened  by  its  humor.  It  was  obvious 
that  the  only  retaliation  must  be  humorous. 

At  length  the  prince,  on  the  point  of  taking  leave,  in- 
vited his  entertainers  to  a  farewell  supper.  He  drew  the 
conversation  to  the  infinite  superiority  of  the  Italian,  and 
above  all  of  the  Venetian,  acknowledged  the  darkness  in 
which  Germany  had  been  destined  to  remain  so  long,  and 
looked  forward  with  infinite  sorrow  to  the  comparative 
opinion  of  posterity  upon  the  country  to  which  so  little  of 
its  gratitude  must  be  due.  "  But,  my  lords,"  said  he, 
"  we  are  an  emulous  people,  and  an  example  like  yours 
cannot  be  lost  even  upon  a  German.  I  have  been  charmed 
with  your  dramas,  and  have  contrived  a  little  arrangement 
to  give  one  of  our  country,  if  you  will  condescend  to  fol- 
low me  to  the  great  hall."  The  company  rose  and  follow- 
ed him  through  the  splendid  suit  of  Venetian  villas  to  the 
hall,  which  was  fitted  up  as  a  German  barn. 

The  aspect  of  the  theatre  produced  first  surprise,  and 
next  an  universal  smile.  It  had  no  resemblance  to  the 
gilded  and  sculptured  saloons  of  their  own  sumptuous  little 
theatres.  However,  it  was  only  so  much  the  more  Teu- 
tonic. The  curtain  drew  up.  The  surprise  rose  into  loud 
laughter,  even  among  the  Venetians,  who  have  been  sel- 


THE    PLAY    AT    VENICE.  233 

dom  betrayed  into  any  thing  beyond  a  smile,  for  genera- 
tions together. 

The  stage  was  a  temporary  erection,  rude  and  uneven. 
The  scenes  represented  a  wretched  and  irregular  street, 
scarcely  lighted  by  a  few  twinkling  lamps,  and  looking 
the  fit  haunt  of  robbery  and  assassination.  On  a  narrow 
view  some  of  the  noble  spectators  began  to  think  it  had  a 
kind  of  resemblance  to  an  Italian  street,  and  some  actu- 
ally discovered  in  it  one  of  the  leading  streets  of  their 
own  famous  city.  But  the  play  was  on  a  German  story  ; 
they  were  under  a  German  roof.  The  street  was,  not- 
withstanding its  ill-omened  similitude,  of  course,  German. 
The  street  was  solitary.  At  length  a  traveller,  a  German, 
with  pistols  in  a  belt  round  his  waist,  and  apparently  ex- 
hausted by  his  journey,  came  pacing  along.  He  knock- 
ed at  several  doors,  but  could  obtain  no  admission.  He 
then  wrapped  himself  up  in  his  cloak,  sat  down  on  a 
fragment  of  a  monument,  and  soliloquized. 

"  Well,  here  have  I  come ;  and  this  is  my  reception. 
All  palaces,  no  inns ;  all  nobles,  and  not  a  man  to  tell  me 
where  I  can  lie  down  in  comfort  or  in  safety.  Well,  it 
cannot  be  helped.  A  German  does  not  much  care  ;  cam- 
paigning has  hardened  us.  Hunger  and  thirst,  heat  and 
cold,  dangers  of  war,  and  the  roads,  are  not  very  formida- 
ble, after  what  we  have  had  to  work  through  from  father 
to  son.  Loneliness,  however,  is  not  so  well,  unless  a  man 
can  labor  or  read.  Read  ! — that's  true  ;  come  out,  Zim- 
merman." He  took  a  volume  from  his  pocket,  moved 
nearer  to  the  decaying  lamp,  and  soon  seemed  absorbed. 

Another  soon  shared  the  eyes  of  the  spectators.  A  long, 
light  figure  came  with  a  kind  of  visionary  movement, 
from  behind  the  monument,  surveyed  the  traveller  with 
keen  curiosity,  listened  with  apparent  astonishment  to  his 
words,  and  in  another  moment  had  fixed  itself  gazing  over 
his  shoulder  on  the  volume.  The  eyes  of  this  singular 
20* 


THE    PLAY    AT    VENICE. 

being  wandered  rapidly  over  the  page  ;  and,  when  it  was 
turned,  they  were  lifted  to  heaven  with  the  strongest 
expressions  of  wonder.  The  German  was  weary;  his  head 
soon  drooped  over  his  study,  and  he  closed  the  book. 

"What,"  said  he,  rising,  and  stretching  his  limbs;  "is 
there  no  one  stirring  in  this  comfortless  place  ?  Is  it  not 
near  day?"  He  took  out  his  repeater,  and  touched  the 
pendent ;  it  struck  four.  His  mysterious  attendant  had 
watched  him  narrowly ;  the  repeater  was  traversed  over 
with  an  eager  gaze ;  but  when  it  struck,  delight  was  min- 
gled with  wonder,  that  had  till  then  filled  its  pale  intelli- 
gent countenance.  "  Four  o'  clock,"  said  the  German. 
"  In  my  country,  half  the  world  would  be  thinking  of  go- 
ing to  their  day's  work  by  this  time.  In  another  hour,  it 
will  be  sunrise.  Well,  then,  I'll  do  you  a  service,  you 
nation  of  sleepers,  and  make  you  open  your  eyes."  He 
drew  out  one  of  his  pistols,  and  fired  it.  The  attendant 
form,  still  hovering  behind  him,  had  looked  curiously  upon 
the  pistol,  but,  on  its  going  off,  started  back  in  terror,  and 
with  a  loud  cry  that  made  the  traveller  turn. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  was  his  greeting  to  this  strange  in- 
truder. 

"  I  will  not  hurt  you,"  was  the  answer. 

"  Who  cares  about  that  ?  "  was  the  German's  retort ; 
and  he  pulled  out  the  other  pistol. 

"  My  friend,"  said  the  figure,  "  even  that  weapon  of 
thunder  and -lightning  cannot  reach  me  now;  but  if  you 
would  know  who  I  am,  let  me  entreat  you  to  satisfy  my 
curiosity  a  moment.  You  seem  a  man  of  extraordinary 
powers." 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  German,  in  a  gentler  voice,  " if 
you  come  as  a  friend,  I  shall  be  glad  to  give  you  informa- 
tion :  it  is  the  custom  of  our  country  to  deny  nothing  to 
those  who  love  to  learn." 

The  former  sighed  deeply,  and  murmured,  "  And  yet 


THE    PLAY    AT    VENICE.  235 

you  are  a  Teuton.  But  you  were  just  reading  a  little  case 
of  strange,  and  yet  most  interesting  figures :  was  it  a 
manuscript?  " 

"  No,  it  was  a  printed  book." 

"  Printed  ?  What  is  printing  ?  I  riever  heard  but  of 
writing." 

"  It  is  an  art  by  which  one  man  can  give  to  the  world, 
in  one  day,  as  much  as  three  hundred  could  give  by  writ- 
ing, and  in  a  character  of  superior  clearness,  correctness, 
and  beauty ;  one  by  which  books  are  made  universal,  and 
literature  eternal." 

"  Admirable,  glorious  art !  "  said  the  inquirer ;  "  who 
was  its  illustrious  inventor  ?  " 

"  A  German." 

"  But  another  question.  I  saw  you  look  at  a  most  curi- 
ous instrument  traced  with  figures :  it  sparkled  with  dia- 
monds ;  but  its  greatest  wonder  was  its  sound.  It  gave 
the  hour  with  miraculous  exactness,  and  the  strokes  were 
followed  by  tones  superior  to  the  sweetest  music  of  my 
day  ?  " 

"  That  was  a  repeater." 

"  How  ?  When  I  had  the  luxuries  of  the  earth  at  my 
command,  I  had  nothing  to  tell  the  hour  better  than  the 
clepsydra  and  the  sun-dial.  But  this  must  be  incompara- 
ble from  its  facility  of  being  carried  about, — from  its  suit- 
ableness to  all  hours, — from  its  exactness.  It  must  be  an 
admirable  guide  even  to  a  higher  knowledge.  All  de- 
pends upon  the  exactness  of  time.  It  may  assist  naviga- 
tion, astronomy.  What  an  invention !  Whose  was  it  ? 
He  must  be  more  than  man." 

"  He  was  a  German." 

"What,  still  a  barbarian  !  I  remember  his  nation.  I 
once  saw  an  auxiliary  legion  of  them  marching  towards 
Rome.  They  were  a  bold  and  brave,  blue-eyed  troop. 
The  whole  city  poured  out  to  see  those  northern  warriors  , 
but  we  looked  on  them  only  as  savages.  I  have  one 


236  THE    PLAY    AT    VENICE. 

more  question,  the  most  interesting  of  all.  I  saw  you 
raise  your  hand,  with  a  small  truncheon  in  it :  in  a  mo- 
ment something  rushed  out,  that  seemed  a  portion  of  the 
fire  of  the  clouds.  Were  they  thunder  and  lightning  that 
I  saw  ?  Did  they  come  by  your  command  ?  Was  that 
truncheon  a  talisman  1  and  are  you  a  mighty  magician  ? 
Was  that  truncheon  a  sceptre  commanding  the  elements  ? 
Are  you  a  god  1 " 

The  strange  inquirer  had  drawn  back  gradually  as  his 
feelings  rose.  Curiosity  was  now  solemn  wonder,  and 
he  stood  gazing  upward  in  an  attitude  that  mingled  awe 
with  devotion.  The  German  felt  the  sensation  of  a  supe- 
rior presence  growing  on  himself,  as  he  looked  on  the 
fixed  countenance  of  this  mysterious  being.  It  was  in 
that  misty  blending  of  light  and  darkness,  which  the 
moon  leaves  as  it  sinks  just  before  morn.  There  was  a 
single  hue  of  pale  gray  in  the  east,  that  touched  its  visage 
with  a  chill  light ;  the  moon,  resting  broadly  on  the  hori- 
zon, was  setting  behind  :  the  figure  seemed .  as  if  it  was 
standing  in  the  orb.  Its  arms  were  lifted  towards  heaven, 
and  the  light  came  through  its  drapery  with  the  mild 
splendor  of  a  vision  ;  but  the  German,  habituated  to  the 
vicissitudes  of  "  perils  by  flood  and  field,"  shook  off  his 
brief  alarm,  and  proceeded  calmly  to  explain  the  source 
of  this  miracle.  He  gave  a  slight  detail  of  the  machinery 
of  the  pistol,  and  alluded  to  the  history  of  gunpowder. 
"  It  must  be  a  mighty  instrument  in  the  hands  of  man, 
for  either  good  or  ill,"  said  the  former.  "  How  much  it 
must  change  the  nature  of  war  !  How  much  it  must  in- 
fluence the  fate  of  nations  !  By  whom  was  this  wondrous 
secret  revealed  to  the  treaders  upon  earth  ?  " 

"  A  German." 

The  form  seemed  suddenly  to  enlarge  ;  its  feebleness 
of  voice  was  gone  ;  its  attitude  was  irresistibly  noble.  Be- 
fore it  uttered  a  word,  it  looked  as  made  to  persuade  and 
command.  Its  outer  robe  had  been  flung  away :  it  stood 


THE    PLAY    AT    VENICE.  237 

with  an  antique  dress  of  brilliant  white,  gathered  in  many 
folds,  and  edged  with  a  deep  border  of  purple  ;  a  slight 
wreath  of  laurel,  dazzling  green,  was  on  its  brow.  It 
looked  like  the  genius  of  eloquence.  "  Stranger,"  it  said, 
pointing  to  the  Apennines,  which  were  then  beginning  to 
be  marked  by  the  twilight,  "  eighteen  hundred  years  have 
passed  since  I  was  the  glory  of  all  beyond  those  mountains. 
Eighteen  hundred  years  have  passed  into  the  great  flood 
of  eternity  since  I  entered  Rome  in  triumph,  and  was 
honored  as  the  leading  mind  of  the  great  intellectual 
empire  of  the  world.  But  I  knew  nothing  of  those  things. 
I  was  a  child  to  you  ;  we  were  all  children  to  the  discov- 
erers of  those  glorious  potencies.  But  has  Italy  not  been 
still  the  mistress  of  mind  1  She  was  then  first  of  the 
first :  has  she  not  kept  her  superiority  ?  Show  me  her  no- 
ble inventions.  I  must  soon  sink  from  the  earth — let  me 
learn  still  to  love  my  country." 

The  listener  started  back.     "  Who,  what  are  you  ?  " 
"  I  am  a  spirit.     I  was  Cicero.     Show  me,  by  the  love 
of  a  patriot,  what  Italy  now  sends  out  to  enlighten  man- 
kind." 

The  German  looked  embarrassed;  but,  in  a  moment 
after,  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  pipe  and  tabor.  He  point- 
ed in  silence  to  the  narrow  street  from  which  the  inter- 
ruption came.  A  ragged  figure  tottered  out  with  a  barrel 
organ  at  his  back,  a  frame  of  puppets  in  his  hand,  a  hur- 
dy-gurdy round  his  neck,  and  a  string  of  dancing  dogs  in 
his  train.  Cicero  uttered  but  one  sigh — "  Is  this  Italy !  " 
The  German  bowed  his  head.  The  showman  began  his 
cry — "  Raree  show,  fine  raree  show  against  the  wall ! 
Fine  Madama  Catrina  dance  upon  de  ground.  Who  come 
for  de  galantee  show  !  "  The  organ  struck  up,  the  dogs 
danced,  the  Italian  capered  round  them.  Cicero  raised 
his  broad  gaze  to  heaven.  "  These  the  men  of  my  coun- 
try !  These  the  orators,  the  poets,  the  patriots  of  man- 
kind !  What  scorn  and  curse  of  Providence  can  have 


238  THE    SON    AND    HEIR. 

fallen  upon  them!  "  As  he  gazed,  tears  suddenly  suffused 
his  eyes ;  the  first  sun-beam  struck  across  the  spot  where 
he  stood;  a  purple  mist  rose  around  him,  and  he  was  gone ! 

********* 

The  Venetians,  with  one  accord,  started  from  their 
seats  and  rushed  out  of  the  hall.  The  prince  and  his 
suite  had  previously  arranged  every  thing  for  leaving  the 
city,  and  they  were  beyond  the  Venetian  territory  by  sun- 
rise. Another  night  in  Venice,  they  would  have  been  on 
their  way  to  the  other  world. 


THE   SON   AND    HEIR;— A   STORY   FOR  THE 
IRASCIBLE. 

MY  youth  was  passed  in  the  thoughtless  and  extrava- 
gant gayety  of  the  French  court.  My  temper  was  always 
violent ;  and  I  returned  home  one  morning,  long  after  mid- 
night, frantic  with  rage  at  some  imaginary  insult  which  I 
had  received.  My  servant  endeavored  to  speak  to  me  as 
I  entered  the  house;  but  I  repulsed  him  violently,  and 
rushed  up  to  my  room.  I  locked  the  door,  and  sat  down 
instantly  to  write  a  challenge.  My  hand  trembled  so  much 
that  it  would  not  hold  the  pen :  I  started  up  and  paced  the 
room  :  the  pen  was  again  in  my  hand,  when  I  heard  a  low 
voice  speaking  earnestly  at  the  door,  entreating  to  be  ad- 
mitted. The  voice  was  that  of  my  father's  old  and  favorite 
servant.  I  opened  the  door  to  him.  The  old  man  looked 
upon  me  with  a  very  sorrowful  countenance,  and  I  hastily 
demanded  the  reason  of  his  appearance.  He  stared  at  me 
with  surprise,  and  spoke  not :  he  walked  to  the  table  where  I 
had  sat  down,  and  took  from  it  a  letter,  which,  in  my  rage, 
I  had  not  noticed.  It  announced  to  me  the  dangerous  ill- 
«jss  of  my  father :  it  was  written  by  my  mother,  and  en- 


THE    SON    AND    HElR.  239 

treatingly  besought  me  instantly  to  return  to  them.  Be- 
fore dawn  I  was  far  from  Paris.  My  father's  residence 
was  in  the  north  of  England.  I  arrived  here  only  in  time 
to  follow  the  corpse  of  my  beloved  father  to  the  grave. 
Immediately  on  my  return  from  the  funeral,  my  mother 
sent  to  me,  requesting  my  attendance  in  her  own  apart- 
ment. Traces  of  a  deep-seated  grief  were  fresh  upon  her 
fine  countenance;  but  she  received  me  with  calm  serious- 
ness. Lore  for  her  living  child  had  struggled  with  her 
sorrow  for  the  dead ;  and  she  had  chosen  that  hour  to 
rouse  me  from  the  follies,  from  the  sins  of  my  past  life. 
My  mother  was  always  a  superior  woman.  I  felt,  as  I 
listened  to  her,  the  real  dignity  of  a  Christian  matron's 
character.  She  won  me  by  the  truth,  the  affection,  the 
gentleness  of  her  words.  She  spoke  plainly  of  my  de- 
grading conduct,  but  she  did  not  upbraid  me.  She  set 
before  me  the  new  duties  which  I  was  called  upon  to  per- 
form. She  said,  "  I  know  you  will  not  trifle  with  those 
duties.  You  are  not  your  own,  my  son ;  you  must  not 
live  to  yourself;  you  profess  the  name  of  Christian ;  you 
can  hold  no  higher  profession.  God  hath  said  to  each  of 
us,  '  My  son,  give  me  thine  heart.'  Have  you  given  your 
heart  and  its  desires  to  God  ?  Can  you  be  that  pitiful 
creature,  a  half  Christian  ?  I  have  spoken  thus,  because 
I  know  that,  if  you  have  clear  ideas  of  your  first  duties, 
and  do  strive  to  perform  them,  then  will  your  relative  du- 
ties be  no  longer  lightly  regarded.  Oh,  my  SOD,  God  knows 
what  I  feel  in  speaking  to  you  thus  in  my  heaviest  hour 
of  affliction ;  and  1  can  only  speak  as  a  feeble  and  per- 
plexed woman.  I  know  not  how  to  counsel  you;  but  I  do 
beseech  you  to  think  for  yourself,  and  to  pray  earnestly  to 
God  for  his  wisdom  and  guidance."  Before  I  left  my 
mother's  presence,  she  spoke  to  me  also  on  my  master 
passion,  anger,  mad  ungovernable  rage.  She  told  me  that, 
even  in  the  early  years  of  my  childhood,  she  had  trem- 
bled at  my  anger :  she  confessed  that  she  dreaded  to  hear, 


240  THE   SON    AND    HEIR. 

while  I  was  absent,  that  it  had  plunged  me  into  some  hor- 
rid crime.  She  knew  not  how  just  her  fears  had  been ; 
for  had  not  my  father's  death  recalled  me  to  England,  I 
should  probably  have  been  the  murderer  of  that  thought- 
less strippling  who  had  unknowingly  provoked  me,  and 
whom  I  was  about  to  challenge  to  fight  on  the  morning  I 
left  Versailles. 

My  mother  did  not  speak  to  me  in  vain.  I  determined 
to  turn  at  once  from  my  former  ways,  to  regulate  my  con- 
duct by  the  high  and  holy  principles  of  the  religion  I  pro- 
fessed, and  to  reside  on  my  own  estate,  in  habits  of  manly 
and  domestic  simplicity. 

About  three  years  after  I  had  succeeded  to  the  titles 
and  possessions  of  my  forefathers,  I  became  the  husband 
of  the  Lady  Jane  N — e;  and  I  thought  myself  truly  happy. 
Two  years  passed  away,  and  every  day  endeared  my  sweet 
wife  to  my  heart ;  but  I  was  not  quite  happy.  We  had  no 
chiH.  I  had  but  one  wish;  one  blessing  seemed  alone 
denied — the  birth  of  a  son.  My  thoughts,  in  all  their 
wanderings,  reverted  to  one  hope — the  birth  of  a  son — an 
heir  to  the  name,  the  rank,  the  estates  of  my  family. 
When  I  knelt  before  God,  I  forgot  to  pray  that  he  would 
teach  me  what  to  pray  for ;  I  did  not  entreat  that  his  wis- 
dom would  direct  me  how  to  use  what  his  goodness  gave. 
No,  I  prayed  as  for  my  life,  I  prayed  without  ceasing,  but 
I  chose  the  blessing.  I  prayed  for  a  son — my  prayers 
were  at  last  granted — a  son  was  born  to  us — a  beautiful, 
healthy  boy.  I  thought  myself  perfectly  happy.  My  de- 
light was  more  than  ever  to  live  in  the  pleasant  retirement 
of  my  own  home,  so  that  year  after  year  passed  away,  and 
only  settled  me  down  more  entirely  in  the  habits  of  domes- 
tic life.  My  boy  grew  up  to  be  a  tall  and  healthy  lad ;  his 
intellect  was  far  beyond  his  years;  and  I  loved  to  make 
him  my  companion,  as  much  from  the  charming  freshness 
of  his  thoughts,  as  from  the  warmth  of  my  attachment  to- 
wards the  child.  I  learned  to  wonder  at  the  satisfaction 


THE    SON    AND    HEIR.  241 

I  had  once  felt  in  mere  worldly  society,  as  I  studied  the 
character  of  my  son.  He  was  not  without  the  faults  which 
all  children  possess,  which  are  rooted  deep  in  human  na- 
ture ;  but  in  all  his  faults,  in  his  deceit, — and  what  child  is 
not  taught  deceit  by  his  own  heart  ? — there  was  a  charm- 
ing awkwardness,  an  absence  of  all  worldly  trick,  which 
appeared  then  very  new  to  me.  I  used  all  my  efforts  to 
prevent  vice  from  becoming  habitual  to  him ;  I  strove  to 
teach  him  the  government  of  himself,  by  referring  not  only 
every  action,  but  every  thought,  to  one  high  and  holy  prin- 
ciple of  thinking  and  acting  to  God  ;  and  I  strove  to  build 
up  consistent  habits  on  the  foundation  of  holy  principle. 
I  was  so  anxious  about  my  son,  that  I  did  not  dare  to  treat 
his  faults  with  a  foolish  indulgence.  I  taught  him  to  know 
that  I  could  punish,  and  that  I  would  be  obeyed ;  yet  he 
lived  with  me,  I  think,  in  all  confidence  of  speech  and 
action,  and  seemed  never  so  happy  as  when  he  sat  at  my 
feet,  and  asked  me,  in  the  eagerness  of  his  happy  fancies, 
more  questions  than  I  could,  in  truth,  answer.  I  cannot 
go  on  speaking  thus  of  those  joyous  times  which  are  gone 
forever ;  I  will  turn  to  a  darker  subject — to  myself. 
While  I  gave  up  my  time,  my  thoughts,  my  soul's  best  en- 
ergies to  my  child,  I  neglected  myself,  the  improvement 
of  my  own  heart  and  its  dispositions.  This  may  seem 
strange  and  improbable  to  some.  It  may  be  imagined  that 
the  habits  of  strict  virtue  which  I  taught  to  my  son  would, 
in  the  teaching,  have  been  learnt  by  myself;  and  that,  in 
the  search  after  sound  wisdom  for  him,  I  must  have  turn- 
ed up,  as  it  were,  many  treasures  needed  by  myself.  It 
would  be  so  in  most  instances,  perchance ;  it  was  not  so  in 
mine.  The  glory  of  God  had  not  been  my  first  wish  when 
I  prayed  for  a  son.  I  had  imposed  upon  myself  in  think- 
ing that  I  acted  in  the  education  of  my  child  upon  that 
sacred  principle.  It  was  honor  among  men  I  looked  for. 
I  had  sought  to  make  my  son  every  thing  that  was  excel- 
lent ;  but  I  had  not  sought  to  make  myself  hi  for  the  work 
21 


242  THE    SON    AND    HEIR. 

I  undertook.  My  own  natural  faults  had  been  suffered  by 
me  to  grow  almost  unchecked,  while  I  had  been  watchful 
over  the  heart  of  my  child.  Above  all,  the  natural  infirm- 
ity of  my  character — anger,  violent,  outrageous  anger — was 
at  times  the  master,  the  tyrant  of  my  soul.  Too  frequent- 
ly had  I  corrected  my  child  for  the  fault  which  he  inherit- 
ed from  me ;  but  how  had  I  done  so  ?  when  passionately 
angry  myself,  I  had  punished  my  boy  for  want  of  temper. 
Could  it  be  expected  that  Maurice  would  profit  by  my  in- 
structions, when  my  example  too  often  belied  my  words  ? 
But  I  will  pass  on  at  once  to  my  guilt. 

The  countess,  my  mother,  had  given  to  Maurice  a  beau- 
tiful Arabian  horse.  I  loved  to  encourage  the  boy  in  all 
manly  exercises.  While  a  mere  child,  he  rode  with  a  grace 
which  I  have  seldom  seen  surpassed  by  the  best  horsemen. 
How  nobly  would  he  bear  himself,  as,  side  by  side  on  our 
fleet  horses,  we  flew  over  the  open  country !  Often,  often 
do  I  behold  in  memory  his  clear,  sparkling  eyes  glancing 
with  intelligence  ;  his  fair  brow  contracted  with  that  slight 
and  peculiar  frown,  which  gives  assurance  that  the  mind 
shares  in  the  smile  of  the  lips.  Often  do  I  see  before  me 
the  pure  glow  flooding  over  his  cheek,  the  waves  of  bright 
hair  floating  away  from  his  shoulders,  as  he  galloped  full 
in  the  face  of  the  fine  free  wind. 

My  boy  loved  his  Araby  courser  as  all  noble-spirited 
boys  love  a  favorite  horse.  He  loved  to  dress,  and  to  feed, 
and  to  caress  the  beautiful  creature  ;  and  Selim  knew  his 
small,  gentle  hand,  and  would  arch  his  sleek  and  shining 
neck  when  the  boy  drew  nigh,  and  turn  his  dark,  lustrous 
eye,  with  a  look  like  that  of  pleased  recognition,  on  him, 
when  his  master  spoke. 

My  child  was  about  eleven  years  old  at  the  time  I  must 
now  speak  of.  He  usually  passed  many  hours  of  the  morn- 
ing in  the  library  with  me.  It  was  on  the  17th  of  June,  a 
lovely  spring  morning,  Maurice  had  been  very  restless  and 
inattentive  to  his  books.  The  sunbeams  dazzled  his  eyes, 


THE    SON    AND    HEIR.  243 

and  the  fresh  wind  fluttered  among  the  pages  before  him. 
The  boy  removed  his  books,  and  sat  down  at  a  table  far 
from  the  open  window.  I  turned  round,  an  hour  after, 
from  a  volume  which  had  abstracted  all  my  thoughts. 
The  weather  was  very  hot,  and  the  child  had  fallen  fast 
asleep.  He  started  up  at  once  when  I  spoke.  I  asked 
him  if  he  could  say  his  lesson?  He  replied,  "  Yes,"  and 
brought  the  book  instantly ;  but  he  scarcely  knew  a  word, 
and  he  seemed  careless,  and  even  indifferent.  I  blamed 
him,  and  he  replied  petulantly.  I  had  given  back  the 
book  to  him,  when  a  servant  entered,  and  told  me  that  a 
person  was  waiting  my  presence  below.  With  a  somewhat 
angry  tone,  I  desired  the  boy  not  to  stir  from  the  room 
till  I  returned,  and  then  to  let  me  hear  him  say  his  lesson 
perfectly.  He  promised  to  obey  me.  There  is  a  small 
closet  opening  from  the  library ;  the  window  of  this  closet 
overlooks  the  stable.  Probably  the  dear  child  obeyed  me 
in  learning  perfectly  his  lesson  ;  but  I  was  detained  long  ; 
and  he  went  to  the  closet  in  which  I  had  allowed  him  to 
keep  the  books  belonging  to  himself.  A  bow  and  arrows, 
which  I  had  lately  given  him,  were  there;  perhaps  the 
boy  could  not  resist  looking  on  them ;  they  were  lying  on 
the  floor  when  I  entered  afterwards.  From  that  closet 
Maurice  heard  the  sound  of  a  whip — he  heard  quick  and 
brutal  strokes  falling  heavily.  Springing  up,  he  ran  to  the 
window ;  beneath,  he  saw  one  of  the  grooms  beating,  with 
savage  cruelty,  his  beautiful  and  favorite  little  courser. 
The  animal  seemed  almost  maddened  with  the  blows ;  and 
the  child  called  out  loudly  to  bid  the  man  desist.  At  first 
the  groom  scarcely  heeded  him,  and  then,  smiling  coldly 
at  the  indignant  boy,  told  him  that  the  beating  was  neces- 
sary, and  that  so  young  a  gentleman  could  not  understand 
how  a  horse  should  be  managed.  In  vain  did  my  child 
command  the  brutal  fellow  to  stop.  The  man  pretended 
not  to  hear  him,  and  led  the  spirited  creature  farther  away 
from  beneath  the  window.  Instantly  the  boy  rushed  from 


244  THE    SON    AND    HEIR. 

the  room,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  in  the  yard  below. 
I  entered  the  library  shortly  after  my  son  had  left  it.  The 
person  who  had  detained  me,  brought  news  which  had 
much  disconcerted,  nay,  displeased  me.  I  was  in  a  very 
ill  humor  when  I  returned  to  the  room  where  I  had  left 
Maurice ;  I  looked  vainly  for  him,  and  was  very  angry  to 
perceive  that  my  request  had  been  disobeyed ;  the  closet 
door  was  open ;  I  sought  him  there.  While  I  wondered 
at  his  absence,  I  heard  his  voice  loud  in  anger.  For  some 
moments,  I  gazed  from  the  window  in  silence.  Beneath 
stood  the  boy,  holding  with  one  hand  the  reins  of  his 
courser,  who  trembled  all  over,  his  fine  coat  and  slender 
legs  reeking  and  streaming  with  sweat ;  in  his  other  hand 
there  was  a  horse-whip,  with  which  the  enraged  boy  was 
lashing  the  brutal  groom.  In  a  voice  of  loud  anger,  I 
called  out.  The  child  looked  up ;  and  the  man,  who  had 
before  stood  with  his  arms  folded,  and  a  smile  of  calm  in- 
solence on  his  face,  now  spoke  with  pretended  mildness, 
more  provoking  to  the  child,  but  which  then  convinced 
me  that  Maurice  was  in  fault.  He  spoke,  but  I  silenced 
him,  and  commanded  him  to  come  up  to  me  instantly.  He 
came  instantly,  and  stood  before  me  yet  panting  with  emo- 
tion, his  face  all  flushed,  and  his  eyes  sparkling  with  pas- 
sion. Again  he  would  have  spoken,  but  I  would  not 
hear.  "  Tell  me,  sir,"  I  cried  ;  "  answer  me  one  ques- 
tion;  are  you  right,  or  wrong  1"  "Right,"  the  boy  re- 
plied, proudly.  He  argued  with  me — my  fury  burst  out. 
Alas !  I  knew  not  what  I  did !  but  I  snatched  the  whip 
from  his  hand ;  I  raised  the  heavy  handle ;  I  meant  not 
to  strike  where  I  did.  The  blow  fell  with  horrid  force  on 
his  fair  head.  There  was  iron  on  the  handle,  and  my 
child,  my  only  son,  dropped  lifeless  at  my  feet.  Ere  he 
fell,  I  was  deadly  cold,  and  the  murderous  weapon  had 
dropped  away  from  my  hand.  Stiffened  with  horror,  I 
stood  over  him  speechless,  and  rooted  awhile  to  the  spot. 
At  last  the  yells  of  my  despair  brought  others  to  me  ;  the 


THE    SON    AND    HETR.  245 

wretched  groom  was  the  first  who  came  I  saw  no  more, 
but  fell  in  a  fit  beside  my  lifeless  child. 

When  I  woke  up  to  a  sense  of  what  passed  around  me, 
I  saw  the  sweet  countenance  of  my  wife  bent  over  me 
with  an  expression  of  most  anxious  tenderness.  She  was 
wiping  away  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  and  a  faint  smile 
broke  into  her  face  as  she  perceived  my  returning  sense. 

I  caught  hold  of  her  arm  with  a  strong  grasp,  and  lifted 
up  my  head  ;  but  my  eyes  looked  for  the  body  of  my 
child — it  was  not  there.  "Where  is  it?"  I  cried; 
"  where  is  the  body  of  my  murdered  boy  1 "  When  I 
spoke  the  word  "murdered,"  my  wife  shrieked — I  was 
rushing  out — she  stopped  me,  and  said,  "He  is  not  dead; 
he  is  alive."  My  heart  melted  within  me,  and  tears  rain- 
ed from  my  eyes.  My  wife  led  me  to  the  chamber  where 
they  had  laid  my  child.  He  was  alive,  if  such  a  state 
could  be  called  life.  Still  his  eyelids  were  closed ;  still 
his  cheeks,  even  his  lips,  were  of  a  ghastly  whiteness ; 
still  his  limbs  were  cold  and  motionless.  They  had  un- 
dressed him,  and  my  mother  sat  in  silent  grief  beside  his 
bed.  When  I  came  near,  she  uncovered  his  fair  chest, 
and  placed  my  hand  over  his  heart.  I  felt  a  thick  and 
languid  beating  there,  but  the  pulse  of  his  wrists  and  tem- 
ples was  scarcely  perceptible.  My  mother  spoke  to  me. 
"  We  have  examined  the  poor  child,"  she  said,  "  but  we 
find  no  wound,  no  bruise,  no  marks  of  violence.  Whence 
is  this  dreadful  stupor  ?  No  one  can  answer  me."  "  I 
can  answer  you,"  I  said  :  "  no  one  can  answer  but  myself. 
I  am  the  murderer  of  the  child.  In  my  hellish  rage,  I 
struck  his  blessed  head."  I  did  not  see  the  face  of  my 
wife,  or  my  mother;  as  I  spoke,  I  hung  my  head ;  but  I 
felt  my  wife's  hand  drop  from  me ;  I  heard  my  mother's 
low,  heart-breaking  groan.  I  looked  up,  and  saw  my  wife. 
She  stood  before  me  like  a  marble  figure  rather  than  a 
creature  of  life ;  yet  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  me,  and  her 
soul  seemed  to  look  out  in  their  gaze.  "  Oh,  my  husband," 
21  * 


246  THE    SON    AND    HEIR. 

she  cried  out  at  length,  "  I  see  plainly  in  your  face  what 
you  suffer.  Blessed  God,  have  mercy,  have  mercy  on 
him  !  He  suffers  more  than  we  all.  His  punishment  is 
greater  than  he  can  bear !  "  She  flung  her  arms  round 
my  neck ;  she  strove  to  press  me  nearer  to  her  bosom ; 
but  I  would  have  withdrawn  myself  from  her  embrace. 
"  Oh,  do  not  shame  me  thus,"  I  cried ;  "  remember,  you 
must  remember,  that  you  are  a  mother."  "  I  cannot  for- 
get that  I  am  a  wife,  my  husband,"  she  replied,  weeping. 
"  No,  no;  I  feel  for  you,  and  I  must  feel  with  you  in  every 
sorrow.  How  do  I  feel  with  you  now,  in  this  overwhelm- 
ing affliction !  "  My  mother  had  fallen  on  her  knees  when 
I  declared  my  guilt ;  my  wife  drew  me  towards  her ;  and, 
rising  up,  she  looked  me  in  the  face.  "  Henry,"  she  said, 
in  a  faint,  deep  voice,  "  I  have  been  praying  for  you,  for 
us  all.  My  son,  look  not  thus  from  me."  As  she  was 
speaking,  the  surgeon  of  my  household,  who  had  been 
absent  when  they  first  sent  for  him,  entered  the  chamber. 
My  kind  mother  turned  from  me,  and  went  at  once  with 
him  to  the  bedside  of  the  child.  I  perceived  her  inten- 
tion to  prevent  my  encountering  the  surgeon.  She  would 
have  concealed,  at  least  for  a  while,  her  son's  dis- 
grace ;  but  I  felt  my  horrid  guilt  too  deeply  to  care  about 
shame.  Yet  I  could  not  but  groan  within  me,  to  per- 
ceive the  good  man's  stare,  his  revolting  shudder,  while 
I  described  minutely  the  particulars  of  my  conduct  to- 
wards my  poor  boy.  I  stood  beside  him  as  he  examined 
the  head  of  my  child.  I  saw  him  cut  away  the  rich  curls; 
and  he  pointed  out  to  me  a  slight  swelling  beneath  them; 
but  in  vain  did  he  strive  to  recover  the  lifeless  form :  his 
efforts  were,  as  those  of  my  wife  and  mother  had  been, 
totally  without  success.  For  five  days,  I  sat  by  the  bed- 
side of  my  son,  who  remained,  as  at  first,  still  in  that  death- 
like stupor,  but  gradually  a  faint,  life-like  animation  stole 
over  him ;  so  gradually  indeed,  that  he  opened  not  his  eyes 
till  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day;  and,  even  then,  he  knew 


THE    SON    AND    HEIR.  247 

us  not,  and  noticed  nothing.  Oh,  few  can  imagine  what 
my  feelings  were !  How  my  first  faint  hopes  lived,  and 
died,  and  lived  again,  as  the  beating  of  his  heart  became 
more  full  and  strong — as  he  first  moved  the  small  hand, 
which  I  held  in  mine,  and  at  last  stretched  out  his  limbs. 
After  he  had  unclosed  his  eyes,  he  breathed  with  the  soft 
and  regular  respiration  of  a  healthy  person,  and  then 
slept  for  many  hours.  It  was  about  noon  on  the  fifth  day, 
that  he  woke  from  that  sleep.  The  sun  had  shone  so 
full  into  the 'room,  that  I  partly  closed  the  shutters  to 
shade  his  face.  Some  rays  of  sunshine  pierced  through 
the  crevices  of  the  shutter,  and  played  upon  the  coverlet 
of  his  bed.  My  child's  face  was  turned  towards  me,  and 
I  watched  eagerly  for  the  first  gleam  of  expression  there. 
He  looked  up,  and  then  around  him,  without  moving  his 
head.  My  heart  grew  sick  within  me,  as  I  beheld  the 
smile  which  played  over  his  face.  He  perceived  the  dan- 
cing sunbeam,  and  put  his  fingers  softly  into  the  streak  of 
light,  and  took  them  away,  and  smiled  again.  I  spoke  to 
him,  and  took  his  hand  in  my  own ;  but  he  had  lost  all 
memory  of  me,  and  saw  nothing  in  my  face  to  make  him 
smile.  He  looked  down  on  my  trembling  hand,  and  play- 
ed with  my  fingers ,  and  when  he  saw  the  ring  which  I 
wore,  he  played  with  that,  while  the  same  idiot  smile  came 
back  to  his  vacant  countenance. 

My  mother  now  led  me  from  the  room.  I  no  longer  re- 
fused to  go.  I  felt  that  it  was  fit  that  I  should  "  commune 
with  my  own  heart,  and  in  my  chamber,  and  be  still." 
They  judged  rightly  in  leaving  me  to  perfect  solitude. 
The  calm  of  my  misery  was  a  change  like  happiness  to 
me.  A  deadness  of  every  faculty,  of  all  thought  and  feel- 
ing, fell  on  me  like  repose.  When  Jane  came  to  me,  I 
had  no  thought  to  perceive  her  presence.  She  took  my 
hands  tenderly  within  hers,  and  sat  down  beside  me  on 
the  floor.  She  lifted  up  my  head  from  the  boards,  and 
supported  it  on  her  knees.  I  believe  she  spoke  to  me 


248  THE    SON    AND    HEIR. 

many  times  without  my  replying.  At  last  I  heard  her, 
and  rose  up  at  her  entreaties.  "  You  are  ill;  your  hands 
are  burning,  my  beloved,"  she  said.  "Go  to  bed,  I  be- 
seech you.  You  need  rest."  I  did  as  she  told  me.  She 
thought  I  slept  that  night ;  but  the  lids  seemed  tightened 
and  drawn  back  from  my  burning  eye-balls.  All  the  next 
day  I  lay  in  the  same  hot  and  motionless  state — I  cannot 
call  it  repose. 

For  days  I  did  not  rise.  I  allowed  myself  to  sink  un- 
der the  weight  of  my  despair.  I  began  to  give  up  every 
idea  of  exertion. 

My  mother,  one  morning,  came  to  my  chamber.  She 
sat  down  by  my  bedside,  and  spoke  to  me.  I  did  not, 
could  not,  care  to  notice  her  who  spoke  to  me.  My 
mother  rose,  and  walked  round  to  the  other  side  of  the 
bed,  towards  which  my  face  was  turned.  There  she  stood, 
and  spoke  again  solemnly.  "  Henry,"  she  said,  "  I  com- 
mand you  to  rise.  Dare  you  to  disobey  your  mother  ?  No 
more  of  this  unmanly  weakness.  I  must  not  speak  in 
vain.  I  have  needed  to  command  before.  My  son,  be  your- 
self. Think  of  all  the  claims  which  this  life  has  upon 
you;  or,  rather,  think  of  the  first  high  claim  of  Heaven, 
and  let  that  teach  you  to  think  of  other  duties,  and  to  per- 
form them.  Search  your  own  heart.  Probe  it  deeply. 
Shrink  not.  Know  your  real  situation  in  all  its  bearings. 
Changed  as  it  is,  face  it  like  a  man,  and  seek  the  strength 
of  God  to  support  you.  I  speak  the  plain  truth  to  you. 
Your  child  is  an  idiot.  You  must  answer  to  God  for  your 
crime.  You  will  be  execrated  by  mankind,  for  your  hand 
struck  the  mind's  life  from  him.  These  are  harsh  words, 
but  you  can  bear  them  better  than  your  own  confused  and 
agonizing  thoughts.  Rise  up  and  meet  your  trial.  Tell 
me  simply  that  you  obey  me.  I  will  believe  you,  for  you 
never  yet  have  broken  your  word  to  me."  I  replied  im- 
mediately, rising  up,  and  saying,  "  I  do  promise  to  obey 
you.  Within  this  hour  I  will  meet  you,  determined  to 


THE    SON    AND    HEIR. 

know  my  duties,  and  to  perform  them  by  the  help  of  God." 
Oh  !  with  what  a  look  did  my  noble  mother  regard  me,  as 
I  spoke.  "  God  strengthen  you,  and  bless  you,"  she  said; 
"  I  cannot  now  trust  myself  to  say  more."  Her  voice  was 
feeble  and  trembling  now;  her  lip  quivered,  and  a  bright 
flush  spread  over  her  thin,  pale  cheek;  she  bent  down 
over  me,  and  kissed  my  forehead,  and  then  departed. 

Within  an  hour  from  the  time  when  my  mother  left  me, 
I  went  forth  from  my  chamber  with  a  firm  slep,  determin- 
ed again  to  enter  upon  the  performance  of  my  long-neg- 
lected duties.  I  had  descended  the  hist  step  of  the  grand 
staircase,  when  I  heard  a  laugh  in  the  hall  beyond.  I 
knew  there  was  but  one  who  could  then  laugh  so  wildly ; 
and  too  well  I  knew  the  sound  of  the  voice  which  broke  out 
in  tones  of  wild  merriment  ere  the  laugh  ceased.  For  some 
moments  my  resolution  forsook  me.  I  caught  hold  of  the 
balustrade  to  support  my  trembling  limbs,  and  repressed, 
with  a  violent  effort,  the  groans  which  I  felt  bursting  from 
my  heart.  I  recovered  myself,  and  walked  into  the  hall. 
In  the  western  oriel  window,  which  is  opposite  the  door 
by  which  I  entered,  sat  my  revered  mother :  she  lifted 
up  her  face  from  the  large  volume  which  lay  on  her  knees, 
as  my  step  sounded  near :  she  smiled  upon  me,  and  look- 
ed down  again  without  speaking.  I  passed  on,  but  stop- 
ped again  to  gaze  on  those  who  now  met  my  sight.  In 
the  centre  of  the  hall  stood  my  wife,  leaning  her  cheek 
on  her  hand.  She  gazed  upon  her  son  with  a  smile ;  but 
the  tears  all  the  while  trickled  down  her  face.  Maurice 
was  at  her  feet,  the  floor  around  him  strewed  over  with 
playthings,  the  toys  of  his  infancy,  which  he  had  for  years 
thrown  aside,  but  had  discovered  that  very  morning ;  and 
he  turned  from  one  to  the  other  as  if  he  saw  them  for  the 
first  time,  and  looked  upon  them  all  as  treasures.  An  ex- 
pression of  rapturous  silliness  played  over  the  boy's  fea- 
tures ;  but,  alas !  though  nothing  but  a  fearful  childishness 
was  on  his  face,  all  the  child-like  bloom  and  roundness  of 


250  THE   SON    AND    HEIR. 

that  face  were  gone.  The  boy  now  looked,  indeed,  older 
by  many  years.  The  smiles  on  his  thin  lips  seemed  to 
struggle  vainly  with  languor  and  heaviness ;  his  eyelids 
were  half  closed,  his  cheeks  and  lips  colorless,  his  whole 
form  wasted  away.  My  wife  came  to  me,  and  embraced 
me ;  but  Maurice  noticed  me  not  for  many  minutes.  He 
looked  up  at  me  then,  and,  rising  from  the  ground,  walk- 
ed towards  me.  I  dreaded  lest  my  mournful  appearance 
should  affright  him;  and  I  stood  breathless  with  my  fears. 
He  surveyed  me  from  head  to  foot,  and  came  close  to  me, 
and  looked  up  with  pleased  curiosity  in  my  face,  and  then 
whistled  as  he  walked  back  to  his  toys — whistled  so  loudly, 
that  the  shrill  sound  seemed  to  pierce  through  my  brain ! 

Sunday,  August  ZOth. 

I  have  just  returned  from  divine  service  in  the  chapel 
attached  to  my  house.  While  the  chaplain  was  reading 
the  Psalms,  Maurice  walked  softly  down  the  aisle,  and  en- 
tered my  pew.  He  stood  before  me  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
my  face.  Whenever  I  raised  my  eyes,  I  met  that  fixed  but 
vacant  gaze.  My  heart  melted  within  me,  and  I  felt  tears 
rush  into  my  eyes — his  sweet,  but  vacant  look  must  often 
be  present  with  me — it  seemed  to  appeal  to  me ;  it  seemed 
to  ask  for  my  prayers.  Sinner  as  I  am,  I  dared  to  think  so. 
It  must  be,  to  all,  an  affecting  sight  to  see  an  idiot  in  the 
house  of  God.  It  must  be  a  rebuke  to  hardened  hearts, 
to  hearts  too  cold  and  careless  to  worship  there;  it  must 
be  a  rebuke  to  know  that  one  heart  is  not  unwilling,  but 
unable  to  pray.  Bitterly  I  felt  this  as  I  looked  upon  my 
child.  He  stood  before  me  a  rebuke  to  all  the  coldness 
and  carelessness  which  had  ever  mingled  with  my  prayers. 
His  vacant  features  seemed  to  say,  "  You  have  a  mind 
whose  powers  are  not  confused  ;  you  have  a  heart  to  feel, 
to  pray,  to  praise,  and  to  bless  God.  The  means  of  grace 
are  daily  given  to  you;  the  hopes  of  glory  are  daily  visible 
to  you."  O  God !  my  child  stood  before  me  as  a  more 


A    SCENE    ON    THE    PONT   NEUF.  251 

awful  rebuke — as  a  rebuke  sent  from  thee.  Did  not  his 
vacant  look  say  also,  "  Look  upon  the  wreck  which  your 
dreadful  passions  have  made  ?  Think  upon  what  /  was  ? 
Think  upon  what  /  am  1 "  With  a  broken  heart,  I  listen- 
ed to  the  words  of  life ;  for,  while  I  listened,  my  poor  idiot 
child  leaned  upon  me,  and  seemed  to  listen  too.  When  I 
bowed  my  head  at  the  name  of  Jesus,  the  poor  boy  bowed 
his.  They  all  knelt  down  ;  but,  just  then,  I  was  lost  in  the 
thoughtfulness  of  my  despair :  my  son  clasped  my  hand ; 
and,  when  I  looked  round,  I  perceived  that  we  alone  were 
standing  in  the  midst  of  the  congregation.  He  looked  me 
earnestly  in  the  face ;  and,  kneeling  down,  he  tried  to  pull 
me  to  kneel  beside  him.  He  seemed  to  invite  me  to  pray 
for  him.  I  did  fall  on  my  knees  to  pray  for  him  and  for 
myself;  and  I  rose  up,  hoping  that,  for  my  Saviour's  sake, 
my  prayers  were  heard,  and  trusting  that  our  heavenly 
Father  feedeth  my  helpless  child  with  spiritual  food  that 
we  know  not  of. 


A  SCENE  ON  THE  PONT  NEUF. 

IF  the  French  do  not  follow,  in  all  respects,  the  pre- 
cepts of  the  gospel,  at  least  it  must  be  confessed  that  they 
pay  due  regard  to  the  apostle's  injunction,  "  Weep  with 
those  that  weep,  and  rejoice  with  those  that  rejoice."  I 
have  seen  a  thousand  instances  of  this  disposition ;  but  I 
do  not  know  that  I  ever  witnessed  one  with  more  pleasure 
than  that  which  I  am  about  to  relate. 

I  was  crossing  the  Pont  Neuf  at  the  moment  when  a 
porter,  belonging  to  the  Bank  of  France,  tired  of  the 
weight  he  carried  ^it  was  a  bag  containing  nine  thousand 
francs  in  silver),  stopped  to  rest  himself  by  leaning  against 


252  A    SCENE    ON    THE    PONT    NEUF. 

the  parapet  wall  of  the  bridge ;  but,  at  the  moment  that  he 
did  so,  his  valuable  load,  either  from  awkwardness  or 
carelessness,  slipped  out  of  his  hands,  and  fell  into  the 
Seine,  which  is  very  deep  just  in  that  spot. 

Never  shall  I  forget  his  look  of  despair.  He  made  a 
movement  to  jump  over,  and,  I  believe,  would  have  effect- 
ed his  purpose,  but  for  the  presence  of  mind  of  a  girl,  a 
little  delicate-looking  thing,  about  sixteen,  a  violet  seller, 
who,  clasping  her  arms  around  him,  cried  for  help,  which 
in  an  instant  was  afforded.  Myself  and  some  others  seiz- 
ed him :  he  struggled  with  us  desperately.  "  Let  me  go  ! " 
cried  he;  "I  am  ruined  forever!  My  wife,  my  children, 
what  will  become  of  you  ?  "  A  multitude  of  voices  were 
raised  at  once,  some  to  console,  others  to  inquire ;  but 
above  the  rest  were  heard  the  clear  and  silver  tones  of  the 
little  violet  girl — "  My  friend,  have  patience,  you  have  lost 
nothing." 

"  Nothing !  Oh,  heavens !  " 

"  No,  no ;  I  tell  you,  no.  Let  some  one  run  for  the 
divers  :  there  is  no  doubt  that  they  will  succeed  in  bring- 
ing it  up." 

"  She  is  right,"  resounded  from  a  number  of  voices, 
and  from  mine  among  the  rest ;  and  in  an  instant  half  a 
dozen  people  ran  to  fetch  the  divers.  Those  who  remain- 
ed exerted  themselves,  each  in  his  way,  for  the  solace  of 
the  poor  porter.  One  brought  him  a  small  glass  of  liqueur ; 
another  a  little  brandy,  and  a  third  some  eau  de  Cologne. 
The  little  violet  girl  had  been  before  all  the  rest  in  admin- 
istering a  cordial, — and  perhaps  hers  was  the  most  effica- 
cious,— a  glass  of  pure  water,  which  she  held  to  his  trem- 
bling lips,  and  made  him  swallow.  "Drink,"  cried  she, 
"drink  it  up;  it  will  do  you  good."  Whether  it  was  the 
water,  or  the  kind  and  sympathetic  manner  with  which  it 
was  offered,  that  relieved  him,  I  know  not ;  but  certainly 
one  of  the  two  had  its  effect,  for  his  looks  grew  less  wild, 
and  he  became  composed  enough  to  make  his  acknowl- 


A    SCENE    ON    THE    PONT    NEUF.  253 

edgments  to  the  humane  spectators,  who  had  shown  such 
interest  in  his  misfortune. 

The  divers  soon  came;  and  one  of  them  descended  with- 
out loss  of  time.  Never  did  I  witness  such  an  intense 
anxiety  as  the  search  excited :  if  the  fate  of  every  one 
present  had  hung  on  the  success,  they  could  not  have  tes- 
tified greater  interest  in  it.  Soon  he  reappeared,  bringing 
up,  not  the  bag  of  silver,  but  a  small  iron  box.  It  was  in- 
stantly broken  open,  and  found  to  be  full  of  twenty-franc 
pieces  in  gold :  they  were  soon  counted,  and  found  to 
amount  to  nearly  twelve  thousand  francs  (about  four  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds  sterling). 

There  were  three  divers,  who,  overjoyed  at  their  good 
fortune,  speedily  divided  the  prize  among  themselves ;  and, 
directly  afterwards,  another  descended  in  search  of  the 
porter's  bag.  This  time  he  returned  with  it  in  triumph. 
The  poor  fellow  could  scarcely  speak  when  they  put  it  in- 
to his  hands.  On  coming  to  himself,  he  cried  with  vehe- 
mence, "  God  reward  you :  you  know  not  the  good  you 
have  done.  I  am  the  father  of  five  children.  I  was  for- 
merly in  good  circumstances;  but  a  series  of  misfortunes 
reduced  me  to  the  greatest  distress.  All  that  I  had  left 
was  an  irreproachable  character,  and  that  procured  me 
my  present  situation.  I  have  had  it  but  a  week.  To-day 
I  should,  without  your  help,  have  lost  it.  My  wife,  my 
children  would  have  been  exposed  to  all  the  horrors  of 
want:  they  would  have  been  deprived  of  a  husband  and  a 
father ;  for  never,  no,  never,  could  I  have  survived  the  ruin 
I  had  brought  upon  them!  It  is  you  who  have  saved  us  all. 
God  will  reward  you — he  alone  can.  While  he  thus  spoke, 
he  rummaged  in  his  pocket,  and  drew  out  some  francs. 
"This  is  all  I  have;  'tis  very  little;  but  tell  me  where  you 
lire,  and  to-morrow — "  "  Not  a  farthing,"  interrupted 
they  with  one  voice  ;  and  one  of  them  added,  "  Stop  a  bit; 
let  me  talk  to  my  comrades."  They  stepped  aside  for  a 
moment ;  I  followed  them  with  my  eyes,  and  saw,  by  their 


254         A  oCENE  ON  THE  PONT  NEUF. 

gestures,  that  they  listened  to  their  companion  with  emo- 
tion. "  We  are  all  of  a  mind,"  said  he,  returning  with 
them.  "  Yes,  my  friend,  if  we  have  been  serviceable  to 
you,  you  also  have  been  the  cause  of  our  good  fortune : 
it  seems  to  me,  then,  that  we  ought  to  share  with  you  what 
God  has  sent  to  us  through  your  means.  My  companions 
think  so  too ;  and  we  are  going  to  divide  it  into  four  equal 
parts." 

The  porter  would  have  remonstrated,  but  his  voice  was 
drowned  by  the  acclamations  of  the  spectators.  "  Gen- 
erous fellows  !  "  "  Much  good  may  it  do  you  !  "  "  The 
same  luck  to  you  many  more  times ! "  resounded  from 
every  mouth.  There  was  not  one  present  but  seemed 
as  happy  as  if  he  or  she  were  about  to  participate  in  the 
contents  of  the  box. 

.The  money  was  divided,  and,  in  spite  of  his  excuses, 
the  porter  was  forced  to  take  his  share.  The  generous 
divers  went  their  way  ;  the  crowd  began  to  disperse ;  but 
the  porter  still  lingered,  and  I  had  the  curiosity  to  remain 
in  ordgr  to  watch  his  motions.  He  approached  the  little 
violet  girl.  "Ah!  my  dear,"  cried  he,  "what  do  I  not 
owe  you !  But  for  you,  it  had  been  all  lost  with  me.  My 
wife,  my  little  ones  must  thank  you." 

"  Ma  foil  it  is  not  worth  mentioning.  Would  you 
have  me  stand  by  and  see  you  drown  yourself?  " 

"But  your  courage,  your  strength  !  could  one  have  ex- 
pected it  from  so  young  a  girl  ?  " 

"Ah!  there  is  no  want  of  strength  wherever  there  is 
good  will." 

"And  nobody  ever  had  more  of  that.  Give  me  six 
of  your  bouquets,  my  dear ;  my  children  are  so  fond  of 
violets — and  never  have  they  prized  any  as  well  as  they 
will  these." 

She  twisted  a  bit  of  thread  round  six  of  her  fairy  nose- 


LACY    D£    VERE.  255 

gays,  and  presented  them  to  him.  He  deposited  them 
carefully  in  his  bosom,  and  slipped  something  into  her 
hand ;  then,  without  waiting  to  hear  the  acknowledg- 
ments which  she  began  to  pour  forth,  took  to  his  heels  as 
if  his  bag  had  been  made  of  feathers. 

The  girl  looked  after  him  with  pleasure  dancing  in  her 
eyes.  "  What  will  you  take  for  the  rest  of  your  nose- 
gays?" said  I,  going  up  to  her.  "Whatever  you  are 
pleased  to  give,"  cried  she  with  vivacity ;  "  for  that  good 
man's  money  will  burn  my  purse  till  I  get  home  to  give  it 
to  my  mother.  O  how  glad  she  will  be  to  have  all  that, 
and  still  more  when  she  knows  why  it  has  been  given  to 
me!"  The  reader  will  easily  believe  that  my  purchase 
was  speedily  made:  the  good  girl's  purse  was  something 
the  heavier  for  it,  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  thinking  that 
I  contributed,  in  a  small  degree,  to  reward  the  goodness 
of  heart  she  had  so  unequivocally  displayed.  She  hasten- 
ed home  with  her  little  treasure,  and  I  returned  to  my 
lodgings  to  put  my  violets  into  water,  promising  myself,  as 
I  did  so,  to  be  a  frequent  customer  to  the  little  nosegay 
girl  of  the  Pont  Neuf. 


LACY    DE    VERE. 

THE  founder  of  the  family  of  the  De  Veres  came  over 
with  the  first  William,  but  not  as  an  adventurer,  allured 
by  the  prospect  of  gain  and  the  hope  of  acquiring  titular 
distinction;  for  the  insignia  of  knighthood  had  already 
been  bestowed  upon  him  in  his  own  land.  When,  how- 
ever, the  Conquest  rendered  it  alike  the  duty  and  policy 
of  William  to  attach  his  Norman  followers  to  his  person, 
Rupert  de  Vere  was  one  of  the  first  who  received  solid 


256  LACY    DB    FERE. 

proofs  of  that  monarch's  favor.  Generation  followed  gene- 
ration ;  king  after  king  succeeded  to  the  throne ;  centu- 
ries of  change,  romance,  and  tragedy,  fulfilled  their  che- 
quered fate  ;  and  in  the  historv  of  all,  the  De  Veres  were 
eminently  conspicuous. 

"  But  Time,  that  lifts  the  low, 
And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow," 

began,  at  length,  to  exercise  an  evil  influence  on  the 
fortunes  of  the  house  ;  and  towards  the  middle  of  the  fif- 
teenth century,  Hugh,  the  then  Baron  de  Vere,  had  little 
to  transmit  to  his  children  beyond  the  name  and  noble 
nature  of  his  ancestors.  Instead  of  the  broad  manors  and 
princely  dwellings  once  connected  with  the  title,  he  found 
himself  reduced  to  a  single  castle,  situated  on  the  sea- 
coast  in  the  north  of  England ;  one  that,  in  the  proud 
days  of  the  family,  had  been  erected  as  a  mere  hold  for 
the  protection  of  the  northern  vassals  from  the  incursions 
of  the  Scottish  borderers.  At  the  period  in  question,  the 
tears  of  the  Roses — those  suicidal  wars  of  the  same  peo- 
ple— were  at  their  height.  Every  county  became,  in  turn, 
a  field  of  battle,  till  the  whole  kingdom  was  saturated 
with  the  blood  of  its  inhabitants.  The  ties  of  neighbor- 
hood, even  of  kindred,  were  dissolved.  Inhabitants  of  the 
same  village,  members  of  one  household,  separated  only 
to  meet  again  in  hatred  and  blood-thirstiness — only  to  re- 
unite in  the  fierce  onset  of  battle — neighbors  as  strangers, 
friends  as  rivals,  children  of  one  mother  as  sworn  foes  ! 

Though  it  was  in  consequence  of  these  wars  that  the 
family  of  the  De  Veres  became  extinct,  from  one  sorrow, 
and  one  disgrace,  they  were  free — they  neither  espoused 
the  cause  of  rebellion,  nor  were  they  divided  amongst  them- 
selves. At  the  first  raising  of  King  Henry's  standard,  the 
old  baron  braced  on  his  armor ;  and  if,  owing  to  the 
changed  fortunes  of  his  house,  many  went  forth  to  the 
service  of  that  monarch  with  a  larger  train  of  vassals,  not 


LACY    ])E    VERE.  257 

one,  whether  prince  or  knight,  could  compete  with  Hugh 
de  Vere  in  the  value  of  his  offering.  He  brought  six 
brave  sons,  devoted  to  him  and  to  each  other — the  pillars 
of  his  house,  the  guardians  of  his  age.  Even  the  young- 
est, the  fair  stripling  Lacy,  girt  with  the  sword  which  his 
father,  when  himself  a  youth,  had  wielded  at  Agincourt 
— he,  too,  was  there,  stately  in  step,  and  bold  of  heart  as 
the  mailed  man  of  a  hundred  battles. 

That  was  neither  a  time  nor  a  court  calculated  to  en- 
courage tenderness  of  heart ;  and  she,  the  guiding  spirit 
of  both,  was  little  subject  to  its  influence;  yet,  as  the  bar- 
on presented  his  sons,  each  after  each  according  to  his 
age,  an  expression  of  sorrow  passed,  for  an  instant,  over 
the  countenance  of  Queen  Margaret,  when  Lacy  stepped 
from  the  circle  and  kneeled  down.  "  Nay,  nay,  my 
lord,"  said  she,  hastily,  "leave  the  boy  behind;  why 
expose  a  life  that  can  benefit  neither  friend  nor  foe  1 
Rise,  rise,  poor  child  ;  what  canst  thou  do  for  us  ?  "  "I 
can  DIE  !  "  said  the  noble  boy,  with  a  passionate  enthu- 
siasm, that  thrilled  his  father's  heart  with  mingled 
pride  and  sorrow.  "Well  said!"  replied  the  queen, 
fixing  her  cold,  proud  eye  on  Lacy's  countenance,  yet 
glowing  with  emotion.  He  understood  its  meaning,  and 
returned  the  searching  glance  with  something  like  an  ex- 
pression of  indignant  defiance.  "  I  perceive  he  is  a  De 
Vere,"  said  the  queen,  turning  to  the  old  baron,  for  whom 
the  compliment  and  its  accompanying  smile  were  intended. 
"  But  where  is  poor  Blanche  ?  "  continued  she,  again  ad- 
dressing Lacy  :  "  if  thou  hast  left  her  in  the  north,  she, 
too,  may  need  a  knight's  protection :  thou  art  a  brave 
spirit ;  but  dost  thou  well  to  leave  her  in  charge  of  hire- 
lings ?  For  her  sake — for  thine  own — peril  not  thy  youth 
in  our  cause.  Lord  Hugh,  command  him  back  to  thy 
castle :  if  Warwick  keep  court  in  the  north,  he  may 
chance  to  see  fighting  even  there."  This  was  no  common 
strain  with  Margaret  of  Anjou  ;  but  her  own  princely  boy, 
22* 


258  LACY    DE    VERB. 

the  magnanimous,  ill-fated  Edward,  stood  beside  her,  and 
the  woman  and  the  mother  triumphed,  for  an  instant,  over 
the  imperious  and  dark-minded  queen.  "  Craving  your 
grace's  favor,"  said  Lacy,  in  a  determined  tone,  before 
his  father  had  time  to  reply,  '*  were  Blanche  my  wife,  in- 
stead of  my  sister,  I  would  neither  live  nor  die  like  a  bird 
in  a  cage  :  when  the  arrow  finds  me," — and  the  boy  pointed 
as  he  spoke  to  his  device,  a  falcon  in  full  flight, — "  it  shall 
be  thus,  free  and  fearless." 

No  further  expostulation  or  entreaty  was  attempted. 
Lacy  accompanied  his  father  and  brothers ;  and  ere  time 
had  written  manhood  on  his  brow,  he  had  borne  his  part 
in  many  a  well-fought  field.  The  various  changes  in  the 
royal  fortune  are,  however,  too  well  known  to  require  enu- 
meration here;  indeed,  except  as  connected  with  the  for- 
tunes of  Lacy  de  Vere,  they  are  irrelevant.  On  him  and 
his  they  told  so  soon  and  so  fatally,  that,  at  the  period  to 
which  this  legend  is  supposed  to  refer,  he  was  no  longer 
the  fair  stripling  who  had  vowed  to  die  before  he  well 
knew  the  nature  of  death.  The  years  that  had  elapsed 
since  then  were,  it  is  true,  few  in  number  ;  but  they  had 
been  years  of  strife  and  storm,  crowded  with  fearful  alter- 
nations of  victory  and  defeat,  flight  and  pursuit,  alike 
grievous  and  unavailing.  The  great  struggle  was  yet  un- 
decided. Lacy  de  Vere  was  still  a  youthful  warrior  ;  but, 
oh,  how  changed,  how  care-worn !  The  bloom  had  forsa- 
ken his  cheek  ;  buoyancy  had  left  his  spirit ;  prompt  in 
fight,  and  cool  in  council,  he  played  his  part  in  the  despe- 
rate game  like  one  to  whom  life  and  death,  success  and 
failure,  were  alike  uncertain  and  indifferent.  And  to  him 
all  things  else  were  changed.  He  no  longer  rode  forth 
encouraged  by  the  presence  of  his  father  and  five  brave 
brothers  ;  one  by  one  that  little  company  was  cut  off;  each 
after  each,  in  the  order  of  birth,  fell  by  his  side ;  and 
he,  the  youngest  of  his  father's  house,  became  its 
head — the  sole  heir  of  a  race  of  heroes,  the  last  Baron 
de  Vere. 


LACY    UE    VERE.  259 

It  was  the  battle  of  Towton  which  invested  Lacy  with 
these  melancholy  honors,  and  rendered  him  at  the  same 
time  a  fugitive ;  for  that  battle,  so  sanguinary  in  itself, 
was  fatal  to  the  queen  and  her  adherents.  Stung  to  mad- 
ness by  the  death  of  his  last  surviving  brother,  and  the 
utter  ruin  of  that  cause  in  defence  of  which  all  that  was 
dear  to  him  had  perished,  the  words  of  Margaret,  the  tears 
of  Blanche,  rushed  upon  his  memory  ;  that  tie  of  kindred, 
which  he  had  once  so  lightly  esteemed,  now  that  it  was 
the  only  one  remaining,  assumed  its  rightful  sway  over 
his  wounded  spirit.  He  found  that  the  relative  love 
which  God  had  planted  in  the  human  heart,  however  it 
may  be  outraged  for  a  time  by  stoicism,  by  worldly  wis- 
dom, or  worldly  glory,  will  return  to  the  proudest  bosom 
in  the  dark  day  of  adversity.  Lacy  de  Vere,  who  once, 
in  the  delirium  of  martial  pride,  scorned  his  home,  and 
deserted  her,  who,  as  the  offspring  of  the  same  birth,  was 
bound  to  him  by  a  more  than  common  sisterhood,  now 
flung  down  the  insignia  of  his  rank  and  bearing,  and  fled 
from  the  field  of  battle.  True  to  that  instinct  which  gov- 
erns all  men  in  their  misfortunes,  he  fled  towards  his 
long-deserted  home ;  and  he  found  it,  as  his  fears  had  well 
predicted,  desolate  and  in  ruins.  One  horrible  peculiari- 
ty in  the  present  contest  was  the  license  assumed  by  both 
parties  to  devastate  whatever  part  of  the  country  they 
passed  through,  whether  hostile  or  friendly  to  their  inter- 
ests. Even  those  engaged  in  the  same  cause  were  not  al- 
ways safe  from  each  other ;  many  an  old  feud  was  aveng- 
ed, many  a  rival  removed,  or  his  property  destroyed,  ap- 
parently by  some  excess  on  the  part  of  the  troops,  but 
frequently  at  the  command  of  their  more  interested 
leaders.  The  devastation  which  had  been  wrought  in 
the  present  instance,  seemed  more  than  the  result  of  de- 
stroyers animated  by  merely  general  motives ;  there  ap- 
peared to  have  been  a  guiding  spirit  at  work.  There  did 
not  remain  sufficient  building  to  shelter  a  beggar  from  the 


260  LACY    DE    VERE. 

storm  :  not  a  tree,  not  a  shrub,  but  was  either  cut  down  or 
mutilated  ;  the  grass  and  corn  had  been  consumed  with  lire 
as  they  stood  ;  even  the  paltry  hovels  which  had  sheltered 
the  domestic  laborers  wers  levelled  with  the  earth  :  all 
was  destroyed,  without  distinction  or  remorse — destroyed 
in  the  spirit  of  hatred. 

Lacy  de  Vere  walked  round  the  remains  of  this  the  last 
hold  of  his  race ;  and,  in  the  anguish  of  a  noble  spirit 
brought  low  by  self-reproach,  he  rejoiced  that  his  father 
and  brothers  were  in  the  grave.  But  when  he  reached  a 
spot  which  had  once  been  a  little  herb-garden  walled 
round,  now  open  on  all  sides,  and  choked  with  the  drifted 
sea  sand,  rage  and  grief  overcame  him — he  could  no  lon- 
ger refrain  from  the  expression  of  his  inward  emotions. 
"  Yes,"  said  he,  with  a  bitter  Smile,  "  yes,  an  enemy  hath 
done  this ;  but  no  enemy  of  King  Henry  and  his  cause  : 
it  was  no  Robin  of  Redsdale  with  his  marauders  ;  no  vin- 
dictive Warwick  ;  no  savage  borderers  ;  it  was  my  enemy, 
the  enemy  of  my  house  :  Lionel  Wethamstede,  thou  didst 
this  evil  !  Assassin  serpent,  twice  I  spared  thee  in  battle, 
and  twice  didst  thou  ride  off  bidding  me  seek  my  flourish- 
ing home  and  fair  sister  ! — Blind,  blind  fool,  to  cherish  a 
tiger  till  it  longed  for  its  keeper's  blood  !  Lionel,  Lionel 
Wethamstede,"  continued  the  speaker  more  vehemently, 
while  his  whole  frame  was  tremulous  with  passion,  "  didst 
thou  slaughter  the  lamb  in  the  fold  ?  was  the  bird  crushed 
with  the  nest  1  Oh,  Lionel,  if  thou  didst  spare  Blanche 
in  the  day  of  destruction,  all,  all,  were  thy  sins  thousand- 
fold, shall  be  forgiven  !  If  Blanche  lives — if  thou  hast 
spared  her — I,  even  I,  thine  enemy,  will  bless  thee  !  " 

Lacy  was  too  much  engrossed  by  his  own  emotions  to 
be  aware  that  he  was  watched,  or  even  observed,  by  a  boy 
couched  amongst  the  rubbish.  At  the  first  glaince,  the 
intruder  appeared  nothing  more  than  a  young  peasant, 
worn  with  fright  and  famine ;  but,  upon  a  second  view, 
his  attire,  coarse  as  it  was,  could  not  disguise  the  natural 


LACY    DE    VERB.  21 

grace  of  the  wearer ;  nor  even  the  dark  cloth  bonnet, 
though  of  the  kind  only  worn  by  menials,  give  a  sordid 
expression  to  the  noble  countenance  which  it  shaded. 
Hitherto  he  had  remained  perfectly  quiet,  eyeing  Lacy 
with  mingled  anxiety  and  interest ;  but  when  the  last 
words  of  the  young  knight's  passionate  invocation  died 
upon  the  air,  he  rose  from  his  hiding-place  with  a  slow 
and  stately  step,  and  addressed  him  in  a  tone  that  struck 
like  the  east  wind  to  the  listener's  heart — a  tone  of  re- 
proach, if  aught  so  sweet  could  be  said  to  convey  reproach, 
of  affection  and  deep  sorrow.  "  And  where  wert  thou, 
Lacy  de  Vere,  when  the  spoiler  stole  upon  thy  heritage  1 
Where  was  thy  care  when  she  for  whom  thou  mournest 
prayed  thee,  by  that  mystery  of  love  which  unites  those 
born  in  the  same  hour,  to  stay  and  shield  her  from  treach- 
ery and  violence  1  And  didst  thou  spare  Lionel  Wetham 
stede  ?  Look  to  it ;  for,  of  a  truth,  in  the  day  of  his  pow- 
er, not  so  will  he  spare  thee :  look  to  it ;  for  he  hath  vowed 
vengeance  against  all  who  bear  thy  name,  and  all  who 
call  thee  master;  but  few,  few  are  those.  He  hath  begun 
his  work  well ;  think  ye  not  he  will  finish  ?  When  thou 
wert  young,  thou  hatedst  him  ;  for  the  lying  lip  and  craven 
spirit  are  hateful  to  the  brave  and  true.  But  he  saw  it — 
he  withered  in  the  scornful  glances  of  thy  dark  eye — and 
he  swore  to  have  vengeance — slow,  secret,  but  sure  ven- 
geance, on  thee  and  thine  !  "  "  He  hath  it,  he  hath  it !  " 
groaned  Lacy  ;  "  he  hath  it,  to  the  last  drop  of  bitterness." 
"  He  hath  it  not,"  resumed  the  boy,  solemnly.  "  Dost 
not  thou,  the  offender,  live  ?  and  she  who  spurned 
him  as  a  reptile  when  he  proffered  her  safety — and 
his  hand  ?  Look  to  it,  last  of  a  lordly  race ;  spare 
him  not  the  third  time.  He  hath  laid  thy  dwelling  in  the 
dust :  those  who  were  hirelings  he  corrupted ;  those  who 
were  faithful  he  slew  ;  and  she,  who  was  born  to  mate 
with  princes,  fled  for  her  life  to  the  dark  and  noisome 
cavern  of  the  rock.  Yet  is  the  work  of  vengeance  in- 


262  LACY    DE    VERE. 

complete.  Weep  on,  Lacy  de  Vere,"  continued  the  mys- 
terious speaker,  after  a  pause,  only  interrupted  by  the  bar- 
on's convulsive  sobs;  "though  thou  art  a  warrior,  weep 
on — what  knowest  thou  of  grief?  It  hath  come  to  thee 
in  its  royal  robes,  amid  sounding  trumpets,  and  gorgeous 
banners,  and  the  shout  of  victory,  and  the  presence  of 
mighty  warriors ; — but  grief  hath  come  to  me  in  lowlier 
guise — in  darkness,  and  cold,  and  neglect,  and  hunger, 
and  sickness  of  heart,  and  loneliness  as  of  the  grave  ; 
and  I  shall  weep  no  more,  unless  perchance  for  thee  !  " 
"  Curse,  curse  me,  Blanche  !  "  said  Lacy,  vehemently ; 
for  his  heart  told  him  that  she  herself  was  by  his  side. 
"  I  can  bear  all  things,  now  I  have  found  thee ;  "  and  say- 
ing this,  he  drew  her  to  his  bosom,  and  wept  over  her  like 
a  child. 

Love  is  a  child,  that  speaks  in  broken  words.  It  is  easy 
to  conceive  of  the  self-reproaches  uttered  by  Lacy,  and  the 
sweet  forgiveness  and  consolation  spoken  by  Blanche ; 
of  the  anxious  question  and  fond  reply;  their  mutual 
mourning  over  the  past,  and  mutual  cares  for  the  future, 
both  softened  by  the  reflection,  that,  come  weal,  come  wo, 
the  bond  of  affection  would  never  more  be  divided. 
There  needed  neither  vow  nor  witness  ;  yet  there,  amid 
the  ruins  of  that  home  which  had  sheltered  them  through- 
out a  happy  childhood,  on  the  hearth-stone  round  which,  for 
centuries,  their  ancestors  had  gathered,  the  twins,  the  last 
of  their  race,  knelt  down  and  vowed  to  separate  no  more, 
but  to  have,  living  or  dying,  one  fate,  one  home,  one 
grave ;  and  they  called  upon  the  spirits  of  their  father  and 
brethren,  whose  bones  lay  bleaching  on  many  a  field  of 
battle,  to  witness  and  sanctify  the  vow.  They  arose 
homeless  and  friendless — nevertheless  they  arose  comfort- 
ed ;  for  that  love  which  neither  change  nor  sorrow  can 
lastingly  imbitter  or  absorb,  again  triumphed  in  the  soul 
of  each. 

The  refuge  which  Blanche  had  found  for  herself,  on  the 


LACY    DE    VERE.  263 

destruction  of  her  home,  and  the  death  or  flight  of  those 
left  to  guard  it,  was  too  fearful  a  spot  to  have  been  select- 
ed by  one  less  courageous,  or  under  circumstances  less 
appalling.  A  line  of  rock  extended  along  the  sea-shore 
for  about  the  space  of  half  a  mile,  gradually  rising  from 
one  extremity,  and  as  gradually  declining  to  the  other. 
It  appeared  one  vast  parapet,  a  continued  range  of  stone 
battlements,  erected  by  nature — at  once  to  overlook  and 
brave  the  ocean  beneath.  The  front  was  as  completely 
perpendicular  as  if  hewn  by  the  hammer  and  the  chisel, 
while  lichens,  mosses,  ivy — every  variety  of  graceful 
creeping  shrub— overspread  its  surface,  as  though  trained 
there  by  the  hand  of  man.  It  was  wonderful  to  view  what 
seemed  a  gigantic  wall  of  cold  hard  stone,  thus  magnifi- 
cently embroidered  with  the  foliage  of  earth,  while  here 
and  there  masses  of  the  hoary,  weather-stained  rock  show- 
ed like  ruined  castles  amid  the  clinging  "  greenery." 
Nearly  at  the  summit  of  the  highest  point,  inaccessible, 
as  it  would  seem,  except  to  the  sea-bird  and  the  goat, 
was  a  natural  arch,  scooped  out  of  the  rock,  and  opening 
into  a  cavern.  The  ivy  spread  around  that  arch  with  pecu- 
liar beauty ;  adjacent  parts  of  the  rock  brightened  in  the 
beams  of  morning,  or  in  the  moonlight ;  but  that  cav- 
ern always  retained  the  same  aspect — dark,  noisome,  un- 
earthly. This  was  Blanche's  refuge — the  dwelling-place 
of  her  who  had  been  delicately  reared,  as  befitted  the  only 
daughter  of  a  noble  house.  Lacy  was  mute  with  surprise 
and  terror  when  he  first  saw  her  ascend  what  appeared  to 
him  as  inaccessible  to  the  foot  as  any  castle  wall.  There 
were,  however,  though  he  perceived  them  not,  inequalities 
on  the  surface  ;  and,  now  clinging  to  a  bush,  now  grasp- 
ing a  root  of  ivy,  her  nailed  peasant's  shoes  tinkling,  at 
every  step,  against  the  stony  path, — her  slight  figure  al- 
ternately hidden  and  revealed  amongst  the  shrubs, — 
Blanche,  to  whom  habit  had  familiarized  the  perilous  as- 
cent, reached  the  cavern ;  but,  as  she  stood  in  the  dark 


264  LACY    DE    VERE. 

entrance,  the  moonlight  glimmering  on  her  countenance, 
and  her  voice  coming  down  from  that  vast  height,  a  mere 
"filament  of  sound,"  Lacy  could  have  believed  her  a 
creature  of  another  world  and  species. 

She  was  not,  however,  companionless  in  this  her  aerial 
home :  the  goats  often  repaired  thither  to  rest ;  the  sea- 
bird  there  deposited  her  eggs ;  and  to  them  had  she  fre- 
quently been  indebted  for  sustenance  when  the  rock  and 
the  shore  failed  to  afford  their  natural  tribute  of  berries 
and  shell-fish.  Necessity,  that  teacher  sterner  and  more 
efficient  even  than  duty,  soon  accustomed  Lacy  to  that 
difficult  ascent  and  rude  hiding-place.  He  had  been  too 
familiar  with  hardship  and  sorrow  to  mourn  over  outward 
privations  ;  and,  ere  long,  he  loved  that  "  dim  retreat," 
hallowed  as  it  was  by  repose  and  safety,  and  cheered  by 
the  presence  of  her  who  was  not  only  his  sister,  but  his 
best  and  only  friend. 

"  His  garb  was  humble  ;  ne'er  was  seen 
Such  garb  with  such  a  noble  mien : 
Among  the  shepherd-grooms  no  mate 
Had  he,  a  child  of  strength  and  state. 
Yet  lacked  not  friends  for  solemn  glee, 
And  a  cheerful  company, 
That  learned  of  him  submissive  ways, 
And  comforted  his  private  days. 
To  his  side  the  fallow-deer 
Came  and  rested  without  fear; 
The  eagle,  lord  of  land  and  sea, 
Stooped  down  to  pay  him  fealty." 

Wordsworth. 

The  desires  which  once  consumed  his  spirit  were  extin- 
guished ;  the  vain  strife  and  yet  vainer  joys  and  ambitions 
of  the  world  no  longer  occupied  his  mind.  "  Revenge 
and  all  ferocious  thoughts  were  dead  :  "  he  could  remem- 
ber his  enemies,  ay,  even  Lionel  Wethamstede,  in  peace ; 
and  when  he  walked  among  the  neighboring  herdsmen, 
lowlier  in  lot  than  themselves,  or  stood  in  the  opening  of 
his  mountain-hold,  and  looked  on  the  ocean  roaring  be- 


LACY    Dk.    VERE.  265 

neath,  or  the  host  of  heaven  shining  quietly  above,  Lacy 
de  Vere  forgot  the  past,  and,  calling  his  sister  to  his  side, 
pronounced  himself  a  happy  man. 

But  this  retreat,  this  respite  from  misfortune,  was  not 
destined  to  remain  long  unmolested.  The  battle  of  Tow- 
ton  had,  it  is  true,  placed  Edward,  Duke  of  York,  on  the 
throne,  and  wholly  destroyed  or  scattered  the  adherents 
of  Queen  Margaret ;  but  that  remorseless  prince,  deeming 
his  power  only  to  be  secured  by  continued  bloodshed, 
still  allowed  his  followers  to  ravage  the  north,  as  having 
been  the  stronghold  of  the  Lancastrian  cause.  Among 
the  most  active  in  this  murderous  employment  was  Lionel 
Wethamstede.  He  knew  that  Lacy  de  Vere  yet  lived, 
concealed,  as  he  had  reason  to  suspect,  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  his  former  dwelling.  Except  as  affording  .means 
of  gaining  fortune  and  distinction,  the  cause  of  King 
Edward  or  Queen  Margaret  were  alike  indifferent  to  him. 
It  was  personal  hatred  which  induced  him  to  hunt  out  the 
Lancastrians  with  such  relentless  zeal — the  desire  to  dis- 
cover and  exterminate  the  last  of  that  family,  whose  pro- 
tection he  had  so  long  enjoyed  and  cruelly  requited.  Du- 
ring childhood  and  youth,  he  had  been  a  favorite  with  the 
old  Baron  de  Vere,  and,  as  such,  allowed  to  be  an  inmate 
of  the  castle :  before  him  he  had  masked,  under  the 
show  of  humility  and  devoted  zeal,  the  designing,  treach- 
erous spirit,  which  crouches  that  it  may  the  more  se- 
curely spring  upon  its  prey,  and  lays  in  servile  submis- 
sion the  foundation  of  despotic  power.  The  young  Lacy, 
bold  and  open  as  became  his  birth,  instinctively  scorned 
the  minion,  even  before  he  discovered  how  well  that  scorn 
was  merited.  Many  a  proud  glance  and  bitter  taunt  were 
bestowed  by  the  fearless  youth,  little  dreaming  that  of  all 
such,  however  unnoticed  at  the  time,  Lionel  kept  a  too 
faithful  record,  and  would  one  day  claim  for  them  a  dead- 
ly recompense.  And  now  that  day  was  near  at  hand. 
Hatred,  once  formed  in  the  heart,  turns  neither  to 
23 


266  LACY    DE    \ERE. 

the  right  hand  nor  to  the  left  till  its  work  is  done.  Love, 
even  the  love  of  a  mother  for  her  babe,  may  be  diverted — 
grief,  though  of  a  father  for  his  dead  first-born,  be  forgot- 
ten— gratitude  may  pass  like  the  morning  dew,  and  pity 
as  a  noon-day  cloud — HATRED  alone  can  survive  all 
change,  all  time,  all  circumstance,  all  other  emotions ;  nay, 
it  can  survive  the  accomplishment  of  revenge,  and,  like 
the  vampire,  prey  on  its  dead  victim ! 

"  I  know  not,"  said  Lacy,  as  he  and  Blanche  stood  to- 
gether, one  evening  in  the  archway  of  their  cavern — "  I 
know  not  why,  when  all  around  me  is  so  fair,  sadness  and 
forebodings  of  coming  evil  should  hang  so  heavily  on  my 
heart."  "  Nay,  nay,  dear  Lacy,"  replied  Blanche  ;  "  look 
at  our  castle,  which  will  resist  both  fire  and  violence  ;  our 
faithfal  rock,  with  all  its  luxuriant  garniture  flashing  in 
the  light  of  that  departing  sun  :  what  should  we  fear  ? 
Art  thou  weary  of  repose,  Lacy?  or  dost  thou  mistrust 
thy  warder?  "  continued  she,  with  affectionate  playfulness, 
at  the  same  instant  placing  her  arm  within  his.  But  the 
cloud  passed  not  from  her  brother's  brow,  and  he  replied, 
in  the  low,  broken  voice  men  use  when  troubled  in  spirit, 
"  I  tell  thee,  Blanche — nay,  count  not  my  words  idle,  for  an 
influence  is  on  me  which  I  can  neither  gainsay  nor  resist 
— I  tell  thee,  evil  hangs  over  us — my  end  is  near.  Twice 
I  spared  Lionel  Wethamstede ;  and  twice,  since  the  last 
going  down  of  yonder  sun,  have  I  beheld  myself  in  his 
power.  Oh  !  it  was  a  dark  vision,  a  dream  more  fearful 
than  a  field  of  battle  !  "  "  Dreams,  Lacy,  visions  ! — what 
of  them  ?  When  I  dwelt  here  alone,  oh !  how  often  did  I 
see  thee  prisoner — wounded — dying — dead  !  I,  too,  had 
dreams  and  visions,  and  yet  they  came  not  true;  why, 
then,  should  thine  1 "  Lacy  made  no  reply  to  this  inqui- 
ry, for  he  heard  it  not ;  and  when  he  again  spoke,  his 
words  were  but  the  expression  of  the  melancholy  reverie 
into  which  he  had  fallen.  "  Yes,  it  was  down  there — 
stealing  along  the  foot  of  the  rock,  half-hidden  by  the  trees 


LACY    DE    VERB.  267 

and  underwood,  Lionel  and  his  black  band — six — black 
in  spirit  as  in  outward  guise — not  one  ever  known  to 
strike  twice  or  to  spare — I  knew  them  all — and  why  they 
came."  "  Lacy  ! — Baron  de  Vere  !  "  exclaimed  Blanche, 
shaking  his  arm,  which  she  held,  with  her  utmost  strength, 
"  rouse  from  this  unmanly  mood ;  let  the  babe  and  the 
peasant  start  at  shadows ;  but  thou,  I  pray  thee — let 
me  not  have  to  blush  for  him  whom  I  ought  to  honor !  " 
"  And  for  whom  thou  wilt  ere  long  weep,"  replied  Lacy, 
in  an  unaltered  voice.  "  Blanche  de  Vere,  misjudge  me 
not !  I  spoke  neither  of  flight,  nor  fear,  nor  supplication 
for  life,  nor  of  aught  that  may  disgrace  a  warrior — I  did 
but  speak  of  DEATH — death,  that  were  welcome  if  it  came 
only  to  myself;  but  my  sister,  dearer  than  all  the  kindred  I 
have  lost,  were  all  now  living — my  last,  last  friend  death 
is  on  its  way  to  thee  too  ! "  "It  will  not  be  death,  if 
shared  with  thee,"  replied  Blanche,  fervently ;  "  death 
would  be  to  live  when  thou  wert  gone.  I  did  thee  wrong, 
noble,  generous  brother !  forgive  it."  And  she  sat  down 
at  his  feet,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  "  Glo- 
rious orb!  "  said  Lacy,  after  having  for  some  minutes  ear- 
nestly regarded  the  sun,  which  was  now  slowly  descend- 
ing into  the  ocean  with  more  than  meridian  pomp,  "  un- 
changed, unchangeable — bright  at  thy  setting  as  on  thy 
first  rising — most  glorious  orb,  farewell !  And  thou  too, 
earth,  steeped  in  the  tears  and  blood  of  thy  children,  pol- 
luted with  crime,  groaning  with  sorrow,  yet  withal  so  beau- 
teously  appareled,  many  graves  hast  thou  afforded  my 
father's  house  :  spare  it  yet  another — the  last :  and  now," 
said  he,  the  steady,  solemn  tone  in  which  he  had  hitherto 
spoken  changing  to  one  of  indignant  defiance,  while  a 
change  as  complete  overspread  his  countenance,  "  now, 
even  now,  that  grave  is  needed — the  appointed  hour  is 
arrived — yonder  the  murderers  come,  black  and  silent  as 
in  the  vision  ;  but  the  last  De  Vere  dies  not  like  a  reptile 
driven  into  its  hold  and  crushed  in  darkness ;  the  doom 


268  LACY    DE    VERB. 

that  is  decreed  shall  be  met.  Rise,  Blanche !  sister  by 
birth,  companion  in  sorrow,  daughter  of  heroes,  arise,  and 
let  us  descend  !  let  not  Lionel  have  to  glory  in  our  shame  ! — 
haste  ! — haste  !  I  see  his  black  plume  waving  to  and  fro — 
his  spear  glitters  through  the  trees — nearer — brighter  every 
instant."  "  I  am  ready,  ready  to  endure  all,"  said  Blanche, 
firmly  ;  "  but,  oh !  let  not  Lionel  see  our  parting  anguish  : 
bless  me  for  the  last  time  here  !  "  and  she  laid  her  head 
upon  her  brother's  bosom.  They  stood  regarding  each 
other,  speechless  and  in  tears  :  to  part  was  harder  than 
to  die. 

Lacy's  vision  and  forebodings  were  indeed  on  the  point 
of  being  realized.  The  implacable  Lionel  had  learned 
but  too  surely  their  place  of  retreat,  and  but  too  truly  was 
he,  with  his  ruffians,  winding  along  the  foot  of  the  rock  ; 
even  now  they  were  within  view  of  the  cavern,  in  the 
opening  of  which  stood  that  devoted  pair,  whose  doom  was 
sealed  before  they  knew  it.  A  shout  of  brutal  triumph 
suddenly  burst  from  Lionel  and  his  band,  as  they  halted 
when  sufficiently  near  the  spot :  at  the  same  instant  two 
picked  archers  obeyed  their  leader's  command  with  mur- 
derous precision,  and  ere  the  defenceless  victims  could 
look  round  or  utter  a  cry,  the  arrows  pierced  them,  clasped 
as  they  were  in  each  other's  arms !  One  of  the  shafts 
had  entered  Lacy's  heart,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
without  word  or  groan,  he  was  numbered  with  the  dead. 
For  an  instant,  a  single  instant,  his  dying  eyes  were  turn- 
ed upon  his  fellow-victim  ;  and  that  glance,  though  tran- 
sient as  the  flash  of  lightning,  revealed  love  stronger  than 
death,  love  that  would  exist  beyond  the  grave.  The 
wound  received  by  Blanche,  though  mortal,  was  not  cal- 
culated to  occasion  instant  death ;  and  nobly  did  she  em- 
ploy the  precious  respite. 

"  My  brother  shall  not  become  a  prey  to  the  birds  of 
the  air,"  were  her  first  words,  on  perceiving  that  he  was 
indeed  dead ;  and,  with  an  energy  scarcely  human,  she 


LACY    DE    VERB.  269 

prepared  for  her  labor  of  love.  Habit  had,  it  is  true,  ren- 
dered the  ascent  and  descent  of  that  rock  so  easy,  that,  in 
the  darkest  night,  she  would  scarcely  have  missed  her 
footing  ;  but,  wounded  as  she  was  at  present,  her  intention 
to  descend,  and  convey  with  her  Lacy's  yet  warm  and 
bleeding  body,  appeared  impracticable.  Love,  however, 
enabled  her  to  execute  what  love  had  induced  her  to  de- 
termine. Carefully  wrapping  the  corse  in  every  garment 
she  could  afford  from  herself,  to  defend  it  in  some  measure 
from  the  sharp  points  of  the  rock,  she  partly  drew  and 
partly  bore  the  precious  burden  down  a  pathway,  which, 
to  any  but  herself,  would,  under  such  circumstances,  have 
assuredly  been  fatal.  She  felt  neither  fatigue  nor  pain  ; 
she  heeded  not  that  every  shrub  and  stone  in  the  descent 
was  sprinkled  with  her  own  blood ;  her  sole  care  was  to 
shield  the  senseless  body  in  her  arms  from  wounds  and 
injury.  Heaven,  in  pity,  strengthened  her  for  the  task, 
and  she  reached  the  ground  in  safety — her  labor  accom- 
plished, her  reward  obtained.  Those  who  had  come  out 
against  the  noble  pair  gathered  around  them  in  silence, 
some,  in  truth,  touched  by  this  last  exhibition  of  love,,  pass- 
ing even  the  love  of  women.  She  unfolded  the  coverings 
from  the  body,  which  was  now  becoming  cold  and  stiff; 
then,  looking  upon  the  armed  circle,  she  fixed  her  eye 
on  him,  the  evil  spirit  whose  ministers  they  were,  and 
addressed  him  like  one  gifted  with  unearthly  authority. 
"Lionel,  thy  work  is  finished!  thou  wert  the  nursling  of 
our  house,  and  hast  become  its  destroyer !  thou  hast 
rendered  bitter  for  sweet,  and  evil  for  good,  and  in- 
juries for  benefits  !  thou  hast  brought  low  the  old,  the  hon- 
orable, the  young,  the  brave,  the  virtuous,  and  hitherto 
none  hath  stayed  thy  hand :  but  come  near,  Lionel  We- 
thamstede,  and  I  will  advise  thee  of  things  thatshall  befall 
thee  yet.  By  day  thou  shall  dread  treachery,  and  by  night 
dream  visions  of  horror ;  thou  shalt  flee  when  none  pur- 
23* 


270  LACY    DE    VERE. 

sue,  and  be  afraid  when  no  fear  is  :  thou  hast  built  thy 
fortunes  in  thy  master's  blood  ;  some  around  thee  shall 
build  theirs  in  thine ;  as  thou  hast  hated  so  shall  others 
"hate  thee  :  scorn,  and  sorrow,  and  affliction,  and  want, 
— every  evil  thou  hast  wrought  on  us, — shall  cleave  four- 
fold and  forever  to  thee  and  thine — yea,  cleave  as  the  flesh 
cleaveth  to  the  bone.  Ay,  go  thy  way,  man  of  blood  !  brace 
thy  helmet  and  mount  thy  steed.  Thou  mayest  escape  me 
now ;  but  I  shall  see  thee  again,  where  neither  horse  nor 
armor  will  avail  thee — before  God,  who  will  condemn  the 
murderer  in  the  face  of  heaven,  in  the  day  of  judgment. 
Lionel  Wethamstede,  thou  shalt  meet  me  there." 

She  ceased.  The  livid  paleness  and  the  damps  of  death 
had  gradually  gathered  on  her  countenance :  every  sen- 
tence had  been  uttered  in  mortal  anguish :  nevertheless, 
she  had  maintained,  throughout,  the  cold,  calm  bearing  of 
one  already  separated  from  the  body.  The  wretch  to 
whom  her  words  had  been  addressed  shivered  under  their 
influence,  as  though  exposed  to  an  ice-blast;  superstitious 
horror  mastered  the  ferocious  spirit  till  then  scarcely  satis- 
fied with  its  revenge ;  and,  setting  spurs  to  his  horse,  he 
departed  from  the  spot  like  one  pursued  by  an  evil  spirit. 
"  Let  those  who  shot  the  arrows  complete  their  work  !  " 
said  the  dying  maiden  to  the  men,  who  remained  fixed  to 
the  spot,  subdued  as  by  some  supernatural  agency,  and 
scarcely  conscious  of  their  leader's  departure — "  let  them 
wrap  us  in  one  shroud,  and  bury  us  in  the  same  grave !  " 
One  of  the  archers  stepped  forward :  he  was  rude,  even 
savage  in  his  exterior,  but  nature  was  not  utterly  extinct : 
he  kneeled  down  beside  the  dying  and  the  dead,  and 
swore  to  observe  the  request.  "  Thy  victim  blesses  thee," 
replied  Blanche  ;  "  farewell !  "  She  spoke  no  more,  for 
death  claimed  his  conquest.  She  stretched  herself  on  the 
ground  beside  him  whom  in  life  she  had  loved  so  well, 
whom  dying  she  could  not  forget :  placing  one  arm  be- 


CALUM    DHU.  271 

neath  his  head,  and  the  other  across  his  bosom,  so  that  her 
cheek  rested  against  his,  she  meekly  closed  her  eyes,  like 
a  wearied  child  that  sleeps  on  its  mother's  lap. 

Thus  died  Lacy  and  Blanche  de  Vere,  twins  in  birth, 
and  twins  also  in  the  manner  of  their  death.  They  slept 
not,  as  their  fathers  before  them,  in  marble  monuments 
adorned  with  stately  devices  ;  they  were  laid  in  the  peas- 
ant's grave,  beneath  the  green  and  trodden  turf,  with  no 
record  more  lasting  than  its  bright  but  perishable  flowers. 
There  was  none  to  mourn  over  them,  none  to  have  them 
in  remembrance,  none  to  perpetuate  their  name :  when 
they  died,  they  died  altogether;  and  with  them  the  mem- 
ory of  a  noble  race  passed  forever  from  the  earth. 

"  So  fails,  so  languishes,  grows  dim,  and  dies, 
All  that  this  world  is  proud  of." 


CALUM    DHU;— A    HIGHLAND   TALE. 

CALUM  DHU  was  the  bravest  warrior  that  followed  the 
banners  of  the  chief  of  Colquhoun,  with  which  clan  the 
powerful  and  warlike  M'Gregors  were  at  inveterate  feud. 
Calum  lived  in  a  sequestered  glen  in  the  vicinity  of  Ben 
Lomond.  His  cottage  stood  at  the  base  of  a  steep,  ferny 
hill :  retired  from  the  rest  of  the  clan,  he  lived  alone. 
This  solitary  being  was  the  deadliest  foe  of  the  M'Gregors, 
when  the  clans  were  in  the  red,  unyielding  battle  of  their 
mountain  chiefs.  His  weapon  was  a  bow,  in  the  use  of 
which  he  was  so  skilful,  that  he  could  bring  down  the 
smallest  bird  when  on  the  wing.  No  man  but  himself 
had  ever  bent  his  bow ;  and  his  arrows  were  driven  with 


272  CALUM    DHU. 

such  resistless  force,  that  their  feathery  wings  were  always 
drenched  with  his  foeman's  best  blood.  In  the  use  of  the 
sword,  also,  he  had  few  equals;  but  the  bow  was  the 
weapon  of  his  heart. 

The  son  of  the  chief  of  the  M'Gregors,  with  two  of  his 
clansmen,  having  gone  to  hunt,  and  their  game  being  wide, 
they  wandered  far,  and  found  themselves,  a  little  after  mid- 
day, on  the  top  of  the  hill  at  the  foot  of  which  stood  Calum 
Dhu's  cottage.  "Come,"  said  the  young  chief,  "  let  us  go 
down  and  try  to  bend  Calum  Dhu's  bow.  Evan,  you  and 
I  have  got  the  name  of  being  the  best  bowmen  of  our  cl&.u: 
it  is  said  no  man  but  Calum  himself  can  bend  his  bow ; 
but  it  will  go  hard  with  us  if  we  cannot  show  him  that  the 
M'Gregors  are  men  of  thews  and  sinews  equal  to  the  bend- 
ing of  his  long  bow,  with  which  he  has  so  often  sent  his 
arrows  through  and  through  our  best  warriors,  as  if  they 
had  been  men  of  straw  set  up  to  practise  on.  Come,  he 
will  not  know  us — and  if  he  should,  we  are  three  to  one; 
and  I  owe  him  something,"  added  he,  touching  the  hilt  of 
his  dirk,  "  since  the  last  conflict,  when  he  sent  an  arrow 
through  my  uncle's  gallant  bosom.  Come,  follow  me 
down  !  "  he  continued,  h^s  eye  gleaming  with  determined 
vengeance,  and  his  voice  quivering  with  suppressed  pas- 
sion. The  will  of  a  Highland  chieftain  was  law  at  the 
time  of  which  we  speak.  "  We  will  go  down,  if  a  score 
of  his  best  clansmen  were  with  him,"  said  Evan.  "  Ay, 
but  be  cautious."  "  We  shall  bend  his  bow,  then  break 
it,"  replied  the  young  M'Gregor ;  "  and  then — then  for 
my  uncle's  blood."  "  He  is  good  at  the  sword,"  said  the 
third  M'Gregor ;  "  but  this  (showing  his  dirk)  will  stretch 
him  on  the  sward."  "  Strike  him  not  behind,"  said  the 
young  chief:  "  hew  him  down  in  front :  he  deserves  hon- 
orable wounds,  for  he  is  brave,  though  an  enemy." 

They  had  been  concealed  by  a  rising  knoll  from  being 
seen  from  the  cottage,  which  they  now  reached.  Knock- 
ing loudly  at  the  door,  after  some  delay,  they  were  answer- 


CALUM    DHTJ.  273 

ed  by  the  appearance  of  a  little,  thick-set,  gray-eyea,  old- 
ish-looking man,  with  long  arms  and  a  hlack,  bushy  beard, 
hung  with  gray  threads  and  thrums,  as  if  he  had  been  em- 
ployed in  weaving  the  coarse  linen  of  the  country  and  the 
time.  But  as  he  had  none  of  the  muscular  symptoms  of 
prodigious  strength  which  Calum  Dhu  was  reported  to 
possess,  and  which  had  often  proved  so  fatal  to  their  clan, 
they  could  not  suppose  this  to  be  their  redoubted  foeman  ; 
and,  to  the  querulous  question  of  what  they  wanted,  utter- 
ed in  the  impatient  tone  of  one  who  has  been  interrupted 
in  some  necessary  worldly  employment,  they  replied  by 
inquiring  if  Calum  Dhu  was  at  home.  "  Na,  he's  gane  to 
the  fishing ;  but  an  ye  hae  ony  message  frae  our  chief 
(Heaven  guard  him!)  about  the  coming  of  the  red 
M'Gregors,  and  will  trust  me  with  it,  Calum  will  get  it 
frae  me.  Ye  may  as  well  tell  me  as  him ;  he  stays  lang 
when  he  gaes  out,  for  he  is  a  keen  fisher."  "  We  were 
only  wanting  to  try  the  bending  of  his  bow,"  said  the  dis- 
appointed young  chief,  "which  we  have  heard  no  man 
can  do  save  himself."  "  Hoo  !  gin  that  is  a',  ye  might 
hae  tell'd  it  at  first,  an'  no  keepit  me  sae  lang  frae  my 
loom,"  said  the  old  man;  "but  stop" — and  giving  his 
shoulders  an  impatient  shrug,  which,  to  a  keen  observer, 
would  have  passed  for  one  of  satisfaction,  triumph,  and 
determination,  he  went  into  the  house,  and  quickly  return- 
ed, bringing  out  a  strong  bow,  and  a  sheaf  of  arrows,  and 
flung  them  carelessly  on  the  ground,  saying,  "  Ye'll  be  for 
trying  your  strength  at  a  flight?"  pointing  to  the  arrows; 
"  I  have  seen  Calum  send  an  arrow  over  the  highest  point 
o' that  hill,  like  a  glance  o'  lightning;  and  when  the 
M'Gregors  were  coming  raging  up  the  glen,  like  red 
deevels  as  they  are,  mony  o'  their  best  warriors  fell  at  the 
farthest  entry  o'  the  pass,  every  man  o'  them  wi'  a  hole  in 
his  breast  and  its  fellow  at  his  back." 

He  had  taken  a  long  arrow  out  of  the  sheaf,  and  stood 
playing  with  it  in  his  hand   while   speaking,   seemingly 


274  CALUM    DHU. 

ready  to  give  to  the  first  man  who  should  bend  the  bow. 
The  M'Gregors  were  tall,  muscular  men,  in  the  prime  of 
youth  and  manhood.  The  young  chief  took  up  the  bow, 
and,  after  examining  its  unbending  strength,  laying  all  his 
might  to  it,  strained  till  the  blood  rushed  to  his  face,  and 
his  temples  throbbed  almost  to  bursting — but  in  vain ;  the 
string  remained  slack  as  ever.  Evan  and  the  other 
M'Gregor  were  alike  unsuccessful ;  they  might  as  well 
have  tried  to  root  up  the  gnarled  oaks  of  their  native 
mountains. 

"  There  is  not  a  man,"  cried  the  young  chief  of 
M'Gregor,  greatly  chagrined  at  the  absence  of  Calum 
Dhu,  and  his  own  and  clansmen's  vain  attempts  to 
bend  the  bow, — "  there  is  not  a  man  in  your  clan  can 
bend  that  bow ;  and  if  Calum  Dhu  were  here,  he  should 
not  long  bend  it !  "  Here  he  bit  his  lip,  and  suppressed 
the  rest  of  the  sentence ;  for  the  third  M'Gregor  gave  him 
a  glance  of  caution.  "  Ha!  "  said  the  old  man,  still  play- 
ing with  the  long  arrow  in  his  hand,  and  without  seeming 
to  observe  the  latter  part  of  the  M'Gregor's  speech.  "If 
Calum  was  here,  he  would  bend  it  as  easily  as  ye  wad 
bend  that  rush ;  and  gin  ony  o'  the  M'Gregors  were  in 
sight,  he  wad  drive  this  lang  arrow  through  them  as  easily 
as  ye  wad  drive  your  dirk  through  my  old  plaid,  and  the 
feather  wad  come  out  at  the  other  side,  wet  wi'  their 
heart's  bluid.  Sometimes  even  the  man  behind  is  wound- 
ed, if  they -are  ony  way  thick  in  their  battle.  I  once  saw 
a  pair  o'  them  stretched  on  the  heather,  pinned  together 
with  ane  of  Calum's  lang  arrows." 

This  was  spoken  with  the  cool  composure  and  simpli- 
city of  one  who  is  talking  to  friends,  or  is  careless  if  they 
are  foes.  A  looker-on  could  have  discerned  a  chequered 
shade  of  pleasure  and  triumph  cross  his  countenance,  as 
M'Gregor's  lip  quivered,  and  the  scowl  of  anger  fell  along 
his  brow  at  the  tale  of  his  kinsmen's  destruction  by  the 
arm  of  his  most  hated  enemy. 


CALUM    DHU.  275 

"  He  must  be  a  brave  warrior,"  said  the  young  chief, 
compressing  his  breath,  and  looking  with  anger  and  aston- 
ishment at  the  tenacious  and  cool  old  man.  "  I  should 
like  to  see  this  Calum  Dhu." 

"  Ye  may,  soon  enough  ;  an',  gin  ye  were  a  M'Gregor, 
feel  him  too.  But  what  is  the  man  glunching  and  gloom- 
ing at !  Gin  ye  were  Black  John  himsel,  ye  could  na 
look  mair  deevilish-like.  And  what  are  you  fidging  at, 
man?"  addressing  the  third  M'Gregor,  who  had  both 
marked  and  felt  the  anger  of  his  young  chief,  and  had 
slowly  moved  nearer  the  old  man,  and  stood  with  his  right 
hand  below  the  left  breast  of  his  plaid,  probably  grasping 
his  dirk,  ready  to  execute  the  vengeance  of  his  master,  as 
it  was  displayed  on  his  clouded  countenance,  which  he 
closely  watched.  The  faith  of  the  Gael  is  deeper  than 
"to  hear  is  to  obey" — the  slavish  obedience  of  the  East : 
his  is  to  anticipate  and  perform — to  know  and  accomplish, 
or  die.  It  is  the  sterner  devotedness  of  the  north. 

But  the  old  man  kept  his  keen  gray  eye  fixed  upon  him, 
and  continued,  in  the  same  unsuspecting  tone  :  "  But  is 
there  ony  word  o'  the  M'Gregors  soon  coming  over  the 
hills?  Calum  wad  like  to  try  a  shot  at  Black  John,  their 
chief;  he  wonders  gin  he  could  pass  an  arrow  through  his 
great  hardy  bulk  as  readily  as  he  sends  them  through  his 
clansmen's  silly  bodies.  John  has  a  son,  too,  he  wad  like 
to  try  his  craft  on ;  he  has  the  name  of  a  brave  warrior — I 
forget  his  name.  Calum  likes  to  strive  at  noble  game, 
though  he  is  sometimes  forced  to  kill  that  which  is  little 
worth.  But  I'm  fearfu'  that  he  o'errates  his  ain  strength; 
his  arrow  will  only,  I  think,  ^tick  weel  through  Black 

John,  but "  "Dotard,  peace!"  roared  the  young 

chief,  till  the  glen  rang  again,  his  brow  darkening  like 
midnight ;  "  peace  !  or  I  shall  cut  the  sacrilegious  tongue 
out  of  your  head,  and  nail  it  to  that  door,  to  show  Calum 
Dhu  that  you  have  had  visitors  since  he  went  away,  and 
bless  his  stars  that  he  was  not  here." 


276  CALUM    DHU. 

A  dark  flash  of  suspicion  crossed  his  mind  as  he  gazed 
at  the  cool  old  tormentor  who  stood  before  him,  unquailing 
at  his  frowns  ;  but  it  vanished  as  the  imperturbable  old  man 
said,  "  Haoh  !  ye're  no  a  M'Gregor — and  though  ye  were, 
ye  surely  wadna  mind  the  like  o'  me  !  But  anent  bending 
this  bow,"  striking  it  with  the  long  arrow,  which  he  still 
held  in  his  hand,  "  there  is  just  a  knack  in  it ;  and  your 
untaught  young  strength  is  useless,  as  ye  dinna  ken  the 
gait  o't.  I  learned  it  frae  Calum,  but  I'm  sworn  never  to 
tell  it  to  a  stranger.  There  is  mony  a  man  in  the  clan  I 
ken  naething  about.  But  as  ye  seem  anxious  to  see  the 
bow  bent,  I'll  no  disappoint  ye ;  rin  up  to  yon  gray  stane 
— stand  there,  and  it  will  no  be  the  same  as  if  ye  were 
standing  near  me  when  I'm  doing  it,  but  it  will  just  be  the 
same  to  you,  for  ye  can  see  weel  enough,  and  when  the 
string  is  on  the  bow,  ye  may  come  down,  an'  ye  like,  an' 
try  a  flight ;  it's  a  capital  bow,  and  that  ye'll  fin." 

A  promise  is  sacred  with  the  Gael ;  and,  as  he  was  un- 
der one,  they  did  not  insist  on  his  exhibiting  his  art  while 
they  were  in  his  presence ;  but,  curious  to  see  the  sturdy 
bow  bent, — a  feat  of  which  the  best  warrior  of  their  clan 
•would  have  been  proud,  and  which  they  had  in  vain  essay- 
ed,— and  perhaps  thinking  Calum  Dhu  would  arrive  in  the 
interval, — and  as  they  feared  nothing  from  the  individual, 
who  seemed  ignorant  of  their  name,  and  who  could  not 
be  supposed  to  send  an  arrow  so  far  with  any  effect, — they 
therefore  walked  away  in  the  direction  pointed  out;  nor 
did  they  once  turn  their  faces  till  they  reached  the  gray 
rock.  They  now  turned,  and  saw  the  old  man  (who  had 
waited  till  they  had  gone  the  whole  way)  suddenly  bend 
the  stubborn  yew,  and  fix  an  arrow  on  the  string.  In  an 
instant  it  was  strongly  drawn  to  his  very  ear,  and  the 
feathered  shaft,  of  a  cloth-breadth  length,  was  fiercely 
launched  in  air. 

"  M'Alp — hooch!"  cried  the  young  chief,  meaning  to 


CALUM    DHU.  277 

raise  the  M'Gregor  war-cry,  clapping  his  hand  on  his 
breast  as  he  fell.  "  Ha ! "  cried  Calum  Dhu,  for  it  was  he 
himself;  "clap  your  hand  behin';  the  arm  shot  that  never 
sent  arrow  that  came  out  where  it  went  in ;" — a  rhyme  he 
used  in  battle,  when  his  foes  fell  as  fast  as  he  could  fix 
arrows  to  the  bow-string.  The  two  M'Gregors  hesitated 
a  moment  whether  to  rush  down  and  cut  to  atoms  the  old 
man  who  had  so  suddenly  caused  the  death  of  their  belov- 
ed young  chief;  but  seeing  him  fix  another  arrow  to  his 
bow,  of  which  they  had  just  seen  the  terrible  effects,  and 
fearing  they  might  be  prevented  from  carrying  the  news 
of  his  son's  death  to  their  old  chieftain,  and  thus  cheat 
him  of  his  revenge,  they  started  over  the  hill  like  roes. 
But  a  speedy  messenger  was  after  them ;  an  arrow  caught 
Evan  as  he  descended  out  of  sight  over  the  hill :  sent  with 
powerful  and  unerring  aim,  it  transfixed  him  in  the  shoul- 
der. It  must  have  grazed  the  bent  that  grew  on  the  hill 
top,  to  catch  him,  as  only  his  shoulders  could  be  seen  from 
where  Calum  Dhu  stood.  On  flew  the  other  M'Gregor 
with  little  abatement  of  speed  till  he  reached  his  chieftain 
with  the  bloody  tidings  of  his  son's  death.  "  Raise  the 
clan  ! "  were  Black  John's  first  words  ;  "  dearly  shall  they 
rue  it."  A  party  was  soon  gathered.  Breathing  all  the 
vengeance  of  mountain  warriors,  they  were  soon  far  on 
their  way  of  fierce  retaliation,  with  Black  John  at  their 
head.  Calum  Dhu  was  in  the  meantime  not  idle  ;  know- 
ing, from  the  escape  of  one  of  the  three  M'Gregors,  that 
a  battle  must  quickly  ensue,  he  collected  as  many  of  his 
clansmen  as  he  could,  and,  taking  his  terrible  bow,  which 
he  could  so  bravely  use,  calmly  waited  the  approach  of  the 
M'Gregors,  who  did  not  conceal  their  coming;  for  loud  and 
fiercely  their  pipes  flung  their  notes  of  war  and  defiance 
on  the  gale  as  they  approached ;  and  mountain  cliff  and 
glen  echoed  far  and  wide  the  martial  strains.  They  ar- 
rived, and  a  desperate  struggle  immediately  commenced. 
24 


278  CALUM    DHU. 

The  M'Gregors  carried  all  before  them :  no  warriors  of 
this  time  could  withstand  the  hurricane  onset,  sword  in 
hand,  of  the  far-feared,  warlike  M'Gregors.  Black  John 
raged  through  the  field  like  a  chafed  lion,  roaring  in  a 
voice  of  thunder,  heard  far  above  the  clash,  groans,  and 
yells,  of  the  unyielding  combatants — "  where  was  the  mur- 
derer of  his  son  ?  "  None  could  tell  him — none  was  af- 
forded time,  for  he  cut  down,  in  his  headlong  rage,  every 
foe  he  met.  At  length,  when  but  few  of  his  foes  remain- 
ed, on  whom  he  could  wreak  his  wrath,  or  exercise  his 
great  strength,  he  spied  an  old  man  sitting  on  a  ferny 
bank,  holding  the  stump  of  his  leg,  which  had  been  cut 
off  in  the  battle,  and  who  beckoned  the  grim  chief  to 
come  nearer.  Black  John  rushed  forward,  brandishing 
his  bloody  sword,  crying,  in  a  voice  which  startled  the  yet 
remaining  birds  from  the  neighboring  mountain  cliffs — 
"where  was  his  son's  murderer!"  "Shake  the  leg  out 
o'  that  brogue,"  said  the  old  man,  speaking  with  difficulty, 
and  squeezing  his  bleeding  stump  with  both  hands,  with 
all  the  energy  of  pain,  "  and  bring  me  some  o'  the  water 
frae  yon  burn  to  drink,  and  I  will  show  you  Calum  Dhu, 
for  he  is  yet  in  the  field,  and  lives :  rin,  for  my  heart  burns 
and  faints."  Black  John,  without  speaking,  shook  the 
leg  out  of  the  brogue,  and  hasted  to  bring  water,  to  get 
the  wished-for  intelligence.  Stooping  to  dip  the  bloody 
brogue  in  the  little  stream,  "  M'  Alp — hooch!  "he  cried, 
and  splashed  lifeless  in  ihe  water,  which  in  a  moment 
ran  thick  with  his  blood.  "Ha!"  cried  Calum  Dhu,  for 
it  was  he  again ;  "  clap  your  h&^d  behin' ;  that's  the  last 
arrow  shot  by  the  arm  that  sent  those  which  came  not  out 
where  they  went  in." 


HANNAH.  279 


HANNAH. 

THE  prettiest  cottage  on  our  village-green  is  the  little 
dwelling  of  Dame  Wilson.  It  stands  in  a  corner  of  the 
common,  where  the  hedgerows  go  curving  off  into  a  sort 
of  bay,  round  a  clear,  bright  pond,  the  earliest  haunt  of  the 
swallows.  A  deep,  woody,  green  lane,  such  as  Hobbima 
or  Ruysdael  might  have  painted — a  lane  that  hints  of 
nightingales — forms  one  boundary  of  the  garden,  and  a 
sloping  meadow  the  other ;  whilst  the  cottage  itself,  a  low, 
thatched,  irregular  building,  backed  by  a  blooming  or- 
chard, and  covered  with  honeysuckle  and  jessamine,  looks 
like  the  chosen  abode  of  snugness  and  comfort.  And 
so  it  is. 

Dame  Wilson  was  a  respected  servant  in  a  most  respect- 
able family,  where  she  passed  all  the  early  part  of  her  life, 
and  which  she  quitted  only  on  her  marriage  with  a  man  of 
character  and  industry,  and  of  that  peculiar  universality  of 
genius  which  forms  what  is  called,  in  country  phrase,  a 
handy  fellow.  He  could  do  any  sort  of  work,  was  thatch- 
er,  carpenter,  bricklayer,  painter,  gardener,  game-keeper, 
"  every  thing  by  turns,  and  nothing  long."  No  job  came 
amiss  to  him.  He  killed  pigs,  mended  shoes,  cleaned 
clocks,  doctored  cows,  dogs,  and  horses,  and  even  went 
a.s  far  as  bleeding  and  drawing  teeth  in  his  experiments 
on  the  human  subject.  In  addition  to  these  multifarious 
talents,  he  was  ready,  obliging,  and  unfearing ;  jovial 
withal,  and  fond  of  good-fellowship;  and  endowed  with  a 
promptness  of  resource  which  made  him  the  general  ad- 
viser of  the  stupid,  the  puzzled,  and  the  timid.  He  was 
universally  admitted  to  be  the  cleverest  man  in  the  parish ; 
and  his  death,  which  happened,  about  ten  years  ago,  in 
consequence  of  standing  in  the  water,  drawing  a  pond  for 
one  neighbor,  at  a  time  when  he  was  overheated  by  load- 


280  HANNAH. 

ing  hay  for  another,  made  quite  a  gap  in  our  village  com- 
monwealth. John  Wilson  had  no  rival,  and  has  had  no 
successor ;  for  the  Robert  Ellis,  whom  certain  youngsters 
would  fain  exalt  to  a  copartnery  of  fame,  is  simply  nobody 
— a  bell-ringer — a  ballad-singer — a  troller  of  profane  catch- 
es— a  fiddler — a  bruiser — a  loller  on  alehouse  benches — a 
teller  of  good  stories — a  mimic — a  poet !  What  is  all  this 
to  compare  with  the  solid  parts  of  John  Wilson  ?  Whose 
clock  hath  Robert  Ellis  cleaned  ? — whose  windows  hath 
he  mended? — whose  dog  hath  he  broken? — whose  pigs 
hath  he  rung? — whose  pond  hath  he  fished  ? — whose  hay 
hath  he  saved  ? — whose  cow  hath  he  cured  ? — whose  calf 
hath  he  killed? — whose  teeth  hath  he  drawn? — whom 
hath  he  bled  ?  Tell  me  that,  irreverent  whipsters  !  No  ! 
John  Wilson  is  not  to  be  replaced.  He  was  missed  by  the 
whole  parish;  and,  most  of  all,  he  was  missed  at  home. 
His  excellent  wife  was  left  the  sole  guardian  and  protector 
of  two  fatherless  girls ;  one  an  infant  at  her  knee,  the 
other  a  pretty,  handy  lass,  about  nine  years  old.  Cast  thus 
upon  the  world,  there  must  have  been  much  to  endure, 
much  to  suffer;  but  it  was  borne  with  a  smiling  patience, 
a  hopeful  cheeriness  of  spirit,  and  a  decent  pride,  which 
seemed  to  command  success  as  well  as  respect  in  their 
struggle  for  independence.  Without  assistance  of  any 
sort,  by  needle-work,  by  washing  and  mending  lace  and 
fine  linen,  and  other  skilful  and  profitable  labors,  and  by 
the  produce  of  her  orchard  and  poultry,  Dame  Wilson 
contrived  to  maintain  herself  and  her  children  in  their  old 
comfortable  home.  There  was  no  visible  change :  she 
and  the  little  girls  were  as  neat  as  ever ;  the  house  had  still 
within  and  without  the  same  sunshiny  cleanliness,  and  the 
garden  was  still  famous  over  all  other  gardens  for  its  cloves, 
and  stocks,  and  double  wall-flowers.  But  the  sweetest 
flower  of  the  garden,  the  joy  and  pride  of  her  mother's 
heart,  was  her  daughter  Hannah.  Well  might  she  be 
proud  of  her!  At  sixteen,  Hannah  Wilson  was,  beyond 


HANNAH.  281 

a  doubt,  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  village,  and  the  best.    Hei 
beauty  was  quite  in  a  different  style   from  the  common 
country   rosebud — far  more  choice  and  rare.      Its  chief 
characteristic  was  modesty.     A  light,  youthful  figure,  ex- 
quisitely graceful  and  rapid  in  all  its  movements ;  springy, 
elastic   and  buoyant  as  a  bird,  and  almost  as  shy;  a  fair, 
innocent  face,  with  downcast  blue  eyes,  and  smiles  and 
blushes  coming   and  going  almost  with  her  thoughts  ;  a 
low,  soft  voice,  sweet  even  in  its  monosyllables ;  a  dress 
remarkable  for  neatness  and  propriety,  and  borrowing  from 
her  delicate  beauty  an  air  of  superiority  not  its  own ; — such 
was  the  outward  woman  of  Hannah.     Her  mind  was  very 
like   her   person  ;    modest,  graceful,   gentle,  affectionate, 
grateful,  and  generous  above  all.     The  generosity  of  the 
poor  is  always  a  very  real  and  fine  thing ;  they  give  what 
they  want ;  and  Hannah  was  of  all  poor  people  the  most 
generous.     She  loved   to  give ;  it  was  her  pleasure,  her 
luxury.     Rosy-cheeked   apples,  plums  with  the  bloom  on 
them,  nosegays  of  cloves   and   blossomed  myrtle ; — these 
were  offerings  which  Hannah  delighted  to  bring  to  those 
whom  she  loved,  or  those  who  had  shown  her  kindness  ; 
whilst  to  others,  who  needed   other  attentions  than  fruit 
and  flowers,  she  would  give  her  time,  her   assistance,  her 
skill;    for    Hannah    inherited    her   mother's  dexterity    in 
feminine  employments,   with   something   of   her    father's 
versatile  power.     Besides  being  an   excellent  laundress, 
she  was  accomplished  in  all  the  arts  of  the  needle,  milli- 
nery, dress-making,  and  plain  work;  a  capital  cutter-out, 
an   incomparable  mender,  and    endowed  with  a  gift   of 
altering,  which  made  old  things  better  than  new.     She 
had  no  rival  at  a  rifacemento,  as  half  the  turned  gowns  on 
the  common  can  witness.    As  a  dairy-woman,  and  a  rearer 
of  pigs  and  poultry,  she  was  equally  successful :  none  of 
her  ducks  and  turkeys  ever  died  of  neglect  or  careless- 
aess,  or,  to  use  the  phrase  of  the  poultry-yard  on  such  oc- 
casions, of  "  ill-luck."      Hannah's  fowls  never  dreamed 
24* 


282  HANNAH. 

of  sliding  out  of  the  world  in  such  an  ignoble  way  :  they 
all  lived  to  be  killed,  to  make  a  noise  at  their  deaths,  as 
chickens  should  do.  She  was  also  a  famous  "  scholar," 
kept  accounts,  wrote  bills,  read  letters,  and  answered 
them,  was  a  trusty  accountant,  and  a  safe  confidant. 
There  was  no  end  to  Hannah's  usefulness  or  Hannah's 
kindness  ;  and  her  prudence  was  equal  to  either.  Except 
to  be  kind  or  useful,  she  never  left  her  home ;  attended  no 
fairs,  or  revels,  or  Mayings;  went  no  where  but  to  church ; 
and  seldom  made  a  nearer  approach  to  rustic  revelry  than 
by  standing  at  her  own  garden-gate  on  a  Sunday  evening, 
with  her  little  sister  in  her  hand,  to  look  at  the  lads  and 
lasses  on  the  green.  In  short,  our  village  beauty  had  fairly 
reached  her  twentieth  year  without  a  sweetheart,  without 
the  slightest  suspicion  of  her  having  ever  written  a  love- 
letter  on  her  own  account ;  when,  all  on  a  sudden,  appear- 
ances changed.  She  was  missing  at  the  "accustomed 
gate;"  and  one  had  seen  a  young  man  go  into  Dame  Wil- 
son's; and  another  had  descried  a  trim,  elastic  figure, 
walking,  not  unaccompanied,  down  the  shady  lane.  Mat- 
ters were  quite  clear.  Hannah  had  gotten  a  lover  :  and, 
when  poor  little  Susan,  who,  deserted  by  her  sister,  ventur- 
ed to  peep  rather  nearer  at  the  gay  group,  was  laughingly 
questioned  on  the  subject,  the  hesitating  No,  and  the  half 
Yes,  of  the  smiling  child,  were  equally  conclusive. 

Since  the  new  marriage  act,  we,  who  belong  to  country 
magistrates,  have  gained  a  priority  over  the  rest  of  the 
parish  in  matrimonial  news.  We  (the  privileged)  see  on 
a  work-day  the  names  which  the  Sabbath  announces  to 
the  generality.  Many  a  blushing,  awkward  pair  hath  our 
little  lame  clerk  (a  sorry  Cupid  !)  ushered  in  between  dark 
and  light  to  stammer  and  hacker,  to  bow  and  courtesy,  to 
sign  or  make  a  mark,  as  it  pleases  Heaven.  One  Satur- 
day, at  the  usual  hour,  the  limping  clerk  made  his  appear- 
ance ;  and,  walking  through  our  little  hall,  I  saw  a  fine, 
athletic  young  man,  the  very  image  of  health  and  vigor, 


HANNAH.  283 

mental  and  bodily,  holding  the  hand  of  a  young  woman, 
who,  with  her  head  half  buried  in  a  geranium  in  the  win- 
dow, was  turning  bashfully  away,  listening,  and  yet  not 
seeming  to  listen,  to  his  tender  whispers.  The  shrinking 
grace  of  that  bending  figure  was  not  to  be  mistaken. 
"Hannah!"  and  she  went  aside  with  me,  and  a  rapid 
series  of  questions  and  answers  conveyed  the  story  of  the 
courtship.  "  William  was,"  said  Hannah,  "  a  journeyman 
hatter,  in  B.  He  had  walked  over  one  Sunday  evening  to 
see  the  cricketing ;  and  then  he  came  again.  Her  mother 
liked  him.  Every  body  liked  her  William — and  she  had 
promised, — she  was  going, — was  it  wrong?"  "O  no! 
and  where  are  you  to  live  ?  "  "  William  has  got  a  room 
in  B.  He  works  for  Mr.  Smith,  the  rich  hatter  in  the 
market-place  ;  and  Mr.  Smith  speaks  of  him — O,  so  well ! 
But  William  will  not  tell  me  where  our  room  is.  I  sup- 
pose in  some  narrow  street,  or  lane,  which  he  is  afraid  I 
shall  not  like,  as  our  common  is  so  pleasant.  He  little 
thinks — any  where — "  She  stopped  suddenly;  but  her 
blush  and  her  clasped  hands  finished  the  sentence — "  any 
where  with  him!"  "And  when  is  the  happy  day?" 
"  On  Monday  fortnight,  madam,"  said  the  bridegroom 
elect,  advancing  with  the  little  clerk  to  summon  Hannah 
to  the  parlor,  "  the  earliest  day  possible."  He  drew  her 
arm  through  his,  and  we  parted. 

The  Monday  fortnight  was  a  glorious  morning;  one  of 
those  rare  November  days  when  the  sky  and  the  air  are 
soft  and  bright  as  in  April.  "  What  a  beautiful  day  for 
Hannah !  "  was  the  first  exclamation  of  the  breakfast-table. 
"  Did  she  tell  you  where  they  should  dine  ?  "  "  No,  ma'am  ; 
I  forgot  to  ask."  "  I  can  tell  you,"  said  the  master  of  the 
house,  with  somewhat  of  good-humored  importance  in  his 
air,  somewhat  of  the  look  of  a  man  who,  having  kept  a 
secret  as  long  as  it  was  necessary,  is  not  sorry  to  get  rid 
of  the  burthen.  "I  can  tell  you;  in  London."  "In 
London  ! "  "  Yes.  Your  little  favorite  has  been  in  high 


234  HANNAH. 

luck.  She  has  married  the  only  son  of  one  of  the  best 
and  richest  men  in  B.,  Mr.  Smith,  the  great  hatter.  It  is 
quite  a  romance,"  continued  he :  "  William  Smith  walk- 
ed over  one  Sunday  evening  to  see  a  match  at  cricket. 
He  saw  our  pretty  Hannah,  and  forgot  to  look  at  the 
cricketers.  After  having  gazed  his  fill,  he  approached  to 
address  her;  and  the  little  damsel  was  off  like  a  bird. 
William  did  not  like  her  the  less  for  that,  and  thought  of 
her  the  more.  He  came  again  and  again,  and  at  last 
contrived  to  tame  this  wild  dove,  and  even  to  get  the  entree 
of  the  cottage.  Hearing  Hannah  talk,  is  not  the  way  to 
fall  out  of  love  with  her.  So  William,  at  last,  finding  his 
case  serious,  laid  the  matter  before  his  father,  and  request- 
ed his  consent  to  the  marriage.  Mr.  Smith  was  at  first  a 
little  startled ;  but  William  is  an  only  son,  and  an  excel- 
lent son ;  and,  after  talking  with  me,  and  looking  at  Han- 
nah (I  believe  her  sweet  face  was  the  more  eloquent  ad- 
vocate of  the  two),  he  relented;  and,  having  a  spice  of 
his  son's  romance,  finding  that  he  had  not  mentioned  his 
situation  in  life,  he  made  a  point  of  its  being  kept  secret 
till  the  wedding-day.  We  have  managed  the  business  of 
settlements;  and  William,  having  discovered  that  his  fair 
bride  had  some  curiosity  to  see  London  (a  curiosity,  by 
the  bye,  which  I  suspect  she  owes  to  you  or  poor  Lucy), 
intends  taking  her  thither  for  a  fortnight.  He  will  then 
bring  her  home  to  one  of  the  best  houses  in  B.,  a  fine 
garden,  fine  furniture,  fine  clothes,  fine  servants,  and  more 
money  than  she  will  know  what  to  do  with.  Really,  the 
surprise  of  Lord  E.'s  farmer's  daughter,  when,  thinking 
she  had  married  his  steward,  he  brought  her  to  Burleigh, 
and  installed  her  as  its  mistress,  could  hardly  have  been 
greater.  I  hope  the  shock  will  not  kill  Hannah  though, 
as  is  said  to  have  been  the  case  with  that  poor  lady." 
"O  no!  Hannah  loves  her  husband  too  well.  Any  where 
with  him ! " 

And  I  was  right.      Hannah   has  survived   the  shock. 


THE    GOLDSMITH    OF    PADUA.  285 

She  is  returned  to  B.,  and  I  have  been  to  call  on  her.  I 
never  saw  any  thing  so  delicate  and  bird-like  as  she  look- 
ed in  her  white  gown,  and  her  lace  mob,  in  a  room  light 
and  simple,  and  tasteful  and  elegant,  with  nothing  fine, 
except  some  beautiful  green-house  plants.  Her  reception 
was  a  charming  mixture  of  sweetness  and  modesty,  a  lit- 
tle more  respectful  than  usual,  and  far  more  shamefaced ! 
Poor  thing!  her  cheeks  must  have  pained  her!  But  this 
was  the  only  difference.  In  every  thing  else  she  is  still  the 
same  Hannah,  and  has  lost  none  of  her  old  habits  of  kind- 
ness and  gratitude.  She  was  making  a  handsome  mat- 
ronly cap,  evidently  for  her  mother,  and  spoke,  even  with 
tears,  of  her  new  father's  goodness  to  her  and  to  Susan. 
She  would  fetch  the  cake  and  wine  herself,  and  would 
gather,  in  spite  of  all  remonstrance,  some  of  her  choice 
flowers  as  a  parting  nosegay.  She  did,  indeed,  just  hint 
at  her  troubles  with  visitors  and  servants, — how  strange 
and  sad  it  was  !  seemed  distressed  at  ringing  the  bell,  and 
visibly  shrank  from  the  sound  of  a  double  knock.  But,  in 
spite  of  these  calamities,  Hannah  is  a  happy  woman.  The 
double  rap  was  her  husband's  ;  and  the  glow  on  her  cheek, 
and  the  smile  of  her  lips  and  eyes,  when  he  appeared, 
spoke  more  plainly  than  ever,  "  Any  where  with  him !" 


THE   GOLDSMITH    OF    PADUA. 

IN  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  century,  when  the  citi.es 
of  Italy  were  rendered  rich  by  their  trade  to  the  Indies, 
Padua  was  one  of  the  most  flourishing  of  its  towns,  and 
possessed  a  body  of  merchants,  and  particularly  gold- 
smiths, jewellers,  and  dealers  in  silk,  with  whom  Venice 
itself  could  scarcely  bear  a  comparison.  Amongst  these 


236  THE    GOLDSMITH    OF    PADUA. 

goldsmiths  and  jewellers,  there  was  one  more  eminent 
than  his  brethren.  His  dwelling  was  upon  the  bridge ; 
and  Padua  was  scarcely  more  universally  known  in  Italy, 
than  Jeronimo  Vincente  was  known  for  one  of  its  citizens. 
"  It  never  rains  but  it  pours,"  says  a  northern  proverb ; 
"  riches  beget  riches,"  says  an  Italian  one.  Jeronimo 
found  the  truth  of  both  these  sayings.  He  was  already 
rich  enough  to  satisfy  a  dozen  merchants,  and  to  make  a 
score  of  German  princes.  Fortune,  however,  did  not  yet 
think  that  she  had  done  enough  for  him ;  every  day  some 
traveller  was  arriving  at  Padua,  in  the  exchange  of  whose 
foreign  money  for  the  coin  of  Padua,  he  obtained  some 
good  bargains,  and  added  to  his  overflowing  coffers.  Few 
died  without  relatives  but  he  was  appointed  their  ex- 
ecutor. Many  paid  tribute  to  his  wealth  and  reputation 
by  leaving  him  their  heir.  The  city  of  Padua  gave  him 
all  their  public  contracts ;  and  he  almost  sunk  under  the 
weight  of  trusts,  offices,  &.G.,  not  merely  offered,  but  ob- 
truded and  imposed  on  him. 

Who  could  be  more  happy  than  Jeronimo  Vincente  ? 
So  he  thought  himself  as  he  walked  on  the  bridge  of 
Padua  one  beautiful  summer's  evening.  A  coach  of  one 
of  the  nobles  passed  at  the  same  moment ;  no  one  noticed 
it.  On  the  other  hand,  every  one  who  passed  him  saluted 
him.  "  Such  have  been  the  effects  of  my  industry,  my 
dexterity  in  business,  and  my  assiduous  application.  Yes, 
Jeronimo,  others  have  to  thank  their  ancestors  ;  you  have 
to  thank  only  yourself.  It  is  all  your  own  merit."  And 
with  these  reflections  his  stature,  as  it  were,  increased 
some  inches  higher,  and,  assuming  a  peculiar  port,  and  a 
self-satisfied  step,  he  walked  in  vanity,  and  almost  in  de- 
fiance of  every  thing  and  every  one,  to  his  own  house. 
He  fell  asleep  in  the  same  mood,  and  dreamed  that  the  an- 
cient fable  of  Jupiter  was  repeated  in  his  house,  and  that 
the  heavens  opened,  and  descended  upon  him  in  a  shower 
of  ducats  and  pistoles.  In  all  this  soliloquy  of  Jeronimo, 


THE    GOLDSMITH    OF    PADUA.  287 

the  reader  will  observe,  there  was  not  a  word  or  thought 
of  any  one  but  himself;  he  did  not  attribute  his  plenty  to 
the  blessing  of  God  :  he  felt  no  gratitude  to  him  who  had 
showered  down  upon  him  his  abundance  ;  his  mind,  his 
spirit,  and  his  vanity,  were  that  of  Nebuchadnezzar  ;  and 
the  fate  of  Nebuchadnezzar  was  nearer  to  him  than  he 
imagined.  It  is  a  part  of  the  wise  economy  of  Providence 
to  vindicate  the  honor  and  duty  which  belong  to  him ;  it 
is  a  part  of  his  mercy  to  humble  those  who,  in  forgetting 
him,  are  about  to  lose  themselves.  He  sends  them  pros- 
perity as  a  blessing ;  they  abuse  it,  and  convert  it  to  a 
curse.  He  recalls  the  abused  gift,  and  sends  them  adver- 
sity to  bring  them  to  their  duty.  Such  was  the  course  of 
divine  government  in  the  early  ages  of  the  world; 
such  it  is  to  the  present  day  ;  and  such  did  Jeronimo  find 
it  much  sooner  than  he  expected. 

On  a  sudden,  without  any  apparent  cause,  he  saw,  to 
his  astonishment,  the  universal  respect  to  his  wealth  and 
reputation  on  a  manifest  decrease.  Some,  who  had  before 
nearly  kissed  the  ground  in  his  presence,  now  looked 
erectly  in  his  face,  and  kept  their  straight-forward  course, 
without  giving  him  the  honorable  side  of  the  path ;  others 
kept  their  bonnets  as  if  they  were  nailed  to  their  heads ; 
two  or  three  recalled  their  trusts  ;  others,  happening  to  call 
for  accounts  of  such  trusts,  when  he  was  not  at  home  or 
busy,  spoke  in  a  peremptory  tone,  dropped  hints  of  the 
laws  of  the  country  and  the  duty  of  guardians.  In  plain 
words,  he  gradually  discovered  himself  to  be  as  much 
avoided  as  he  had  heretofore  been  sought.  No  one  was 
punctual  in  his  attendance  but  those  to  whom  he  paid 
their  weekly  or  monthly  pensions.  If  there  could  be  any 
doubt  that  something  extraordinary  had  happened,  Jero- 
nirno  had,  at  length,  sufficient  proof;  for,  having  put  him- 
self in  nomination  for  one  of  the  offices  of  parochial  in- 
tendant,  and  of  the  great  church  and  treasury  of  Padua, 


288         THE  GOLDSMITH  OF  PADUA. 

a  competitor  was  preferred  less  wealthy  than   himself  by 
some  thousands. 

Jeronimo  returned  home  much  confounded  at  this  un- 
expected defeat.  In  vain  he  examined  himself  and  his  sit- 
uation for  the  cause.  "  Am  I  not  as  rich  as  ever  ?  "  said 
he.  "  Have  I  defrauded  any  one? — No.  Have  I  suffered 
any  one  to  demand  their  payment  of  me  twice  1 — No 
What,  then,  can  be  the  cause  of  all  this  ?  "  This  was  a 
question  he  could  not  answer,  but  the  fact  became  daily  and 
hourly  so  much  more  evident,  that  he  shortly  found  him- 
self as  much  avoided,  and  apparently  condemned,  in  every 
respectable  company,  as  he  had  formerly  been  courted 
and  honored. 

It  is  time,  however,  to  give  the  reader  some  informa- 
tion as  to  the  actual  cause.  A  whisper  was  suddenly 
circulated,  that  Jeronimo  had  not  acquired  his  wealth  by 
honest  means.  It  was  reported,  and  gradually  believed, 
that  he  was  an  utterer,  if  not  a  coiner,  of  base  money. 
He  had  the  reputation,  as  has  been  before  said,  of  being 
the  most  able  workman  in  Padua,  in  gold,  silver,  and 
lace ;  "  And  surely,"  said  the  gossips  of  Padua,  "  he 
does  not  wear  his  talent  in  a  napkin.  He  employs  his 
dexterity  to  some  purpose."  "  Are  you  not  speaking  too 
fast  ?  "  said  another  neighbor  ;  "  I  have  always  held  Jero- 
nimo to  be  an  honest  man."  "  And  so  have  I  hitherto," 
said  the  other.  "  But  do  you  see  this  ducat  ?  "  "  Yes, 
and  a  very  good  one  it  is."  "  So  I  thought,"  said  the 
other,  "  till  I  assayed  it :  this  ducat  I  received  from  Jero- 
nimo ;  let  us  prove  it  at  your  assay,  and  you  will  allow  that 
I  did  not  speak  without  some  good  foundation."  The  pro- 
posal was  accepted,  the  trial  made,  and  the  ducat  found  to 
be  base  in  the  proportion  of  one  third  copper  to  two  thirds 
silver. 

The  name  of  this  neighbor  of  Jeronimo,  who  had  de- 
fended him,  was  Guiseppe  Cognigero,  a  very  worthy  and 


THE    GOLDSMITH    OF    PADUA.  289 

honest  man  ;  not  one  of  those  who  found  a  triumph  in  the 
downfall  of  another,  though  above  him  in  wealth  and  hon- 
or. Guiseppe,  as  he  had  said,  had  always  held  Jeronimo  to 
be  a  respectable,  worthy  citizen.  He  had  had  many  deal- 
ings with  him,  and  had  always  found  him  just  and  punctual 
to  the  lowest  coin.  "  Is  it  possible,"  said  he  to  himself, 
"  that,  after  such  a  long  course  of  honesty  and  reputation, 
he  has  so  far  forgotten  himself  as  to  become  a  common 
cheat?  I  will  not  believe  it.  But  this  fact  of  the  base 
ducat ! — Well ;  but  my  friend  may  be  mistaken  ;  he  might 
not  have  received  this  ducat  from  Jeronimo.  I  am  resolv- 
ed I  will  make  a  trial  of  him  myself,  before  I  give  in  to 
the  belief  of  these  reports  in  the  teeth  of  so  fair  a  char- 
acter for  so  many  years."  Guiseppe  was  a  shrewd  man, 
and  never  fixed  on  a  purpose  but  when  he  had  the  inge- 
nuity to  find  the  means  of  executing  it.  He  went  imme- 
diately to  his  home,  and,  taking  a  hundred  ducats  from 
his  private  store,  went  with  them  to  the  house  of  Jeroni- 
mo. "  Signer  Jeronimo,"  said  he,  "  here  are  a  hundred 
ducats,  which  I  wish  to  keep  secret  for  a  certain  purpose. 
I  have  just  embarked  in  a  speculation  of  great  extent,  the 
result  of  which  no  one  can  foresee.  I  wish  to  keep  this 
sum  as  a  deposit,  in  the  event  of  the  failure  of  my  hopes, 
if  you  will  do  me  the  favor  to  take  the  custody  of  it."  Je- 
ronimo, pleased  at  a  confidence  to  which  he  was  now  not 
much  accustomed,  very  willingly  accepted  the  charge, 
and  Guiseppe  took  his  leave  in  the  full  persuasion  that  the 
trial  would  correspond  with  his  expectations,  and  that  re- 
port would  be  proved  to  be  false  and  malicious. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  days,  Guiseppe,  according  to  the 
plan  concerted  in  his  own  mind,  called  suddenly  on  Jero- 
nimo. "  My  dear  friend,"  said  he,  "  I  sincerely  rejoice 
that  I  have  found  you  at  home  ;  a  sudden  demand  has  fallen 
upon  me,  and  I  have  an  expected  occasion  for  the  hundred 
ducats  which  I  deposited  with  you."  "  My  good  friend," 
said  Jeronimo,  "  do  not  preface  such  a  trifle  with  such  a 
25 


290  THE    GOLDSMITH    OF    PADUA. 

serious  apology.  The  money  is  yours ; "  and,  at  the 
same  time  opening  a  private  drawer — '•  You  see  here  it  is, 
just  as  I  deposited  it.  Take  your  money,  my  friend ;  and 
you  may  always  have  the  same  or  any  other  service  from 
me."  Saying  this,  he  gave  Guiseppe  the  same  bag  in 
which  he  had  brought  the  ducats  to  him. 

Guiseppe  hastened  home,  counted  and  examined  the 
ducats.  Their  number  was  right  ;  their  appearance  seem- 
ed good.  He  sounded  them  singly.  One  sounded  suspi- 
ciously; he  assayed  it;  it  was  base.  "Well,"  said  he, 
"  this  may  be  an  accident ;  I  could  almost  swear,  indeed, 
that  every  ducat  I  gave  him  was  good ;  but  this  I  might 
perhaps  have  overlooked."  He  sounded  another  ;  his  sus- 
picions increased  ;  another :  he  was  now  determined  to 
assay  them  all.  He  did  so  ;  and  to  his  confusion  (for  the 
honest  man  was  truly  grieved  and  confounded  at  the  detec- 
tion of  his  neighbor's  dishonesty),  he  found  thirty  bad  duc- 
ats out  of  the  hundred. 

He  now  hastened  back  to  Jeronirno. — "  These  are  not 
the  ducats,  sir,  I  deposited  with  you ;  here  are  thirty  bad 
ducats  out  of  the  hundred."  "  Bad  or  good,"  replied 
Jeronimo,  indignantly,  "  they  are  the  same  which  you  de- 
posited ;  I  took  them  from  your  hands,  put  them  in  the 
drawer,  and  they  were  not  moved  from  thence  till  you  re- 
demanded  them."  Guiseppe  insisted,  and  at  length  se- 
verely reproached  Jeronimo.  Jeronimo  commanded  him 
to  leave  his  house.  "  Can  you  suspect  me  of  such  a  piti- 
ful fraud  1 "  said  he.  "  Indeed  I  never  should,"  replied 
he,  "  unless  upon  this  absolute  evidence.  But  there  must 
be  a  fraud  somewhere.  Either  I  am  attempting  to  defraud 
you,  or  you  to  cheat  me.  It  is  incumbent  upon  both  our 
reputations  that  this  matter  should  be  cleared  up.  I  shall 
go  to  the  magistrates."  "Go  where  you  please,"  said  Je- 
ronimo; "  but  go  without  delay." 

Guiseppe  immediately  hastened  to  the  president  of  jus- 
tice. He  demanded  a  summons  for  Jeronimo.  It  was 


THE  GOLDSMITH  OF  PADUA.          291 

granted.  He  complained,  without  reciting  the  particulars, 
that  Jeronimo  had  paid  him  back  a  deposit,  and,  in  a  hun- 
dred ducats,  had  given  him  thirty  bad.  Jeronimo  denied 
it.  "  I  gave  him  back  the  same  which  he  deposited  with 
me."  There  was  a  law  at  Padua  termed  the  "  law  of  wa- 
ger." The  substance  of  this  was,  that  the  party  accused 
had  it  in  his  option  to  clear  himself  by  an  oath  of  his  in- 
nocence. "  Will  you  take  your  wager  ?  "  said  Guiseppe. 
"  Yes,"  replied  Jeronimo.  The  Holy  Evangelists  were 
accordingly  presented  to  him,  and  Jeronimo  swore  upon 
them  that  he  had  not  touched,  still  less  changed,  the  duc- 
ats, since  they  were  deposited  with  him.  The  president, 
accordingly,  gave  judgment  in  his  favor,  being  compelled 
thereto  by  the  laws  of  Padua ;  and  Guiseppe,  with  horror 
at  the  united  fraud  and  perjury  of  the  man  whom  he  had 
hitherto  deemed  honest  and  respectable,  left  the  court,  and 
withdrew  to  his  own  house. 

This  trial  excited  a  universal  interest  and  rumor  in  Pad- 
ua. The  president  of  the  law  had  acquitted  Jeronimo ; 
not  so,  however,  public  reputation.  Guiseppe  was  a  man 
of  established  character :  Jeronimo's  fame  had  been  long 
blemished.  The  previous  reports,  therefore,  were  now 
considered  as  fully  confirmed  into  certainty.  The  magis- 
trates, accordingly,  deemed  it  necessary  to  point  the  atten- 
tion of  the  police  to  him  and  to  his  future  dealings  ;  and  Je- 
ronimo thereafter  became  a  marked  character.  The  police 
of  Padua  was  administered  with  that  discreet  cunning  for 
which  the  Italians  are  celebrated.  Some  of  its  officers 
very  shortly  contrived,  in  the  disguise  of  foreign  merchants, 
to  make  a  deposit  of  good  and  marked  money  with  Jeroni- 
mo, and  shortly  after  redeemed  it  back.  The  money  was 
restored  as  required.  It  was  immediately  carried,  as  be- 
fore, in  the  case  of  Guiseppe,  to  the  public  assay ;  and  the 
result  was,  that  the  greatest  part  of  the  number  of  the 
coins  was  found  to  be  base. 

Jeronimo  was  next  day  arrested  and  thrown  into  prison. 


292  THE    GOLDSMITH    OF    PADUA. 

His  house  was  searched  in  the  same  instant.  The  search 
most  fully  confirmed  what,  indeed,  now  required  but  little 
confirmation.  In  the  secret  drawers  were  found  all  the 
instruments  of  coining,  as  well  as  all  the  materials  of 
adulteration.  An  immense  quantity  of  base  coin  was 
likewise  found  in  different  parts  of  the  house.  All  Padua 
was  now  in  arms.  They  clamorously  demanded  justice  on 
a  man  who  had  not  the  temptation  of  poverty  to  commit 
crimes.  "  Here  is  a  man,"  said  they,  "who  has  raised  his 
head  above  all  of  us,  and  lived  in  luxury  and  splendor,  year 
after  year,  upon  the  fruit  of  his  crimes.  He  has  even  sat 
on  the  public  bench  of  magistrates,  and  administered  the 
laws  of  Padua.  If  justice  be  not  made  for  the  rich,  if  its 
object  be  the  defence  of  all,  let  him  now  be  brought  to 
trial,  and  meet  with  the  punishment  which  he  so  well  mer- 
its." The  magistrates,  in  obedience  to  this  popular  clam- 
or, and  at  the  same  time  acknowledging  its  justice,  some- 
what hastened  the  trial  of  Jeronimo.  He  was  brought 
forward,  accused,  and  the  witnesses  examined  ;  he  had 
nothing  to  allege  which  could  weigh  a  single  grain  against 
the  mass  of  evidence  produced  against  him.  He  was,  ac- 
cordingly, unanimously  condemned.  The  trial  was  holden 
on  the  Monday  :  he  was  found  guilty  the  same  day,  and 
ordered  for  execution  in  the  public  square  on  Friday  fol- 
lowing ;  the  interval  being  granted  for  religious  prepara- 
tions. 

Who  was  now  so  unhappy  as  Jeronimo  de  Vincente ! 
and  what  a  vicissitude  in  his  fortune  and  reputation  had 
a  very  short  time  produced  !  Within  those  few  months  he 
had  been  the  wealthiest  and  most  respected  man  in  Padua. 
The  noblest  families  sought  his  only  daughter  in  marriage  ; 
his  wife  was  the  pattern  and  exemplar  of  all  the  ladies  of 
the  city  and  neighborhood  ;  his  house  was  full  of  the 
richest  furniture  and  paintings  hi  Italy.  Now,  the  officers 
of  justice  were  in  possession  of  it,  and  performed  the  vilest 
offices  in  the  most  magnificent  chambers ;  whilst,  with  the 


THE    GOLDSMITH    OF    PADUA.  293 

ordinary  insolence  of  such  ruffians,  they  scarcely  allowed 
a  corner  of  the  house  to  his  unhappy  wife  and  daughter. 
And  where  was  Jeronimo  himself?  In  the  public  prison 
of  the  city,  in  a  cell  not  four  feet  square,  and  under  or- 
ders for  execution  on  the  next  following  day.  Was  not 
this  enough  to  reduce  Jeronimo  to  his  senses  ?  It  was  : 
he  humbled  himself  before  God,  and  implored  his  pity  ; 
and  it  pleased  the  infinite  Goodness  to  hear  his  prayers, 
and  to  send  him  relief  where  he  least  expected  it. 

Jeronimo  had  a  confidential  clerk,  or  managing  man, 
of  the  name  of  Jacobo.  On  the  day  preceding  that  order- 
ed for  his  master's  execution,  he  was  going  up  stairs  to 
attend  some  message  from  his  unhappy  mistress,  when  his 
foot  slipped,  and  he  fell  from  the  top  to  the  bottom.  His 
neck  was  dislocated  by  the  fall,  and  he  died  without  ut- 
tering a  word.  The  wife  of  this  miserable  man,  then  in 
feeble  health,  was  so  overwhelmed  by  the  intelligence  of 
this  disaster,  that  she  was  immediately  pronounced  to  be 
in  the  most  imminent  danger.  She  repeatedly  requested, 
during  the  night,  that  Jeronimo's  wife  might  be  sent  for  to 
her,  as  she  had  something  very  heavy  at  her  heart  to  com- 
municate to  her.  Jeronimo's  wife  accordingly  came  very 
early  on  the  following  morning.  The  unhappy  woman, 
after  having  summoned  up  the  small  remnant  of  her 
strength,  and  requested  Jeronimo's  wife  to  hear  what  she 
had  to  say,  but  not  to  interrupt  her  till  she  had  concluded, 
thus  addressed  her  : — "  Your  husband  is  innocent ;  mine 
was  guilty.  Fly  to  the  magistrates,  inform  them  of  this, 
and  save  my  husband's  soul  from  adding  to  his  other 

crimes  the  guilt  of  innocent  blood.     Thy  husband " 

She  was  about  to  proceed,  but  death  arrested  her  words. 
Jeronimo's  wife,  thinking  that  her  husband  was  now  effec- 
tually saved,  flew  to  the  president  of  the  magistracy,  and 
demanded  immediate  admission,  and  related  the  confession 
she  had  just  received.  The  president  shook  his  head. 
"  Where  is  the  woman  that  made  the  confession  ?  "  "  She 
25* 


294         THE  GOLDSMITH  OF  PADUA. 

is  dead."  "  Then  where  is  the  party  accused  instead  of 
Jeronimo  ?  "  "  He  is  dead  likewise."  "  Have  you  any 
witnesses  of  the  conversation  of  the  dying  woman  ?  " 
"  None ;  she  requested  every  one  to  leave  the  chamber, 
that  she  might  communicate  to  me  alone."  "  Then  the 
confession,  good  woman,  can  avail  you  nothing  :  the  law 
must  have  its  course."  Jeronimo's  wife  could  make  no 
reply  :  she  was  carried  senseless  out  of  the  court ;  and  the 
president,  from  a  due  sense  of  humanity,  ordered  her  to 
be  taken  to  the  house  of  one  of  his  officers,  and  kept 
there  till  after  the  execution  of  her  husband. 

The  finishing  of  this  catastrophe  was  now  at  hand. 
Already  the  great  bell  of  the  city  was  tolling.  The  hour 
at  length  arrived,  and  Jeronimo  was  led  forth.  He  was 
desired  to  add  any  thing  which  he  had  to  say,  without  loss 
of  time.  He  satisfied  himself  with  the  declaration  of  his 
innocence,  and  with  recommending  his  soul  to  his  Ma- 
ker, then  knelt  down  to  receive  the  destined  blow ;  but 
scarcely  was  he  on  his  knees,  before  the  whole  crowd  was 
thrown  into  motion  by  some  of  the  marshals  of  justice 
rushing  forward  and  exclaiming  to  stop  the  execution. 
The  marshal  at  length  made  his  way  to  the  scaffold,  and 
delivered  a  paper,  with  which  he  was  charged,  to  the  pre- 
siding officer.  The  officer,  upon  reading  it,  immediately 
stayed  the  further  progress  of  the  execution,  and  Jeroni- 
mo was  led  back  to  his  prison.  "  What  is  all  this  ?  "  ex- 
claimed the  crowd.  "  Have  the  friends  of  Jeronimo  at 
length  raised  a  sum  of  money  which  our  just  judges  have 
required  of  them  ?  and  is  his  punishment  thus  bought  off? 
Happy  inhabitants  of  Padua,  where  to  be  rich  is  to  be  able 
to  commit  any  crime  with  impunity  !  " 

It  is  time,  however,  to  inform  the  reader  of  the  true 
cause.  Jeronimo  was  scarcely  led  to  execution,  when 
the  confessor  of  the  prison  demanded  access  to  the  presi- 
dent, and  immediately  laid  before  him  the  confession  of  a 
prisoner  who  had  died  under  a  fever  the  preceding  night. 


THE    GOLDSMITH    OF    PADUA.  295 

The  wretched  malefactor  had  acknowledged  that  he  was 
one  of  a  party  of  coiners,  who  had  carried  on  the  trade 
of  making  false  money  to  a  very  great  extent ;  that  Je- 
ronimo's  clerk  was  at  the  head  of  the  gang ;  that  all  the 
false  money  was  delivered  to  this  clerk,  who  immedi- 
ately exchanged  it  for  good  money  from  his  master's  cof- 
fers, to  all  of  which  he  had  private  keys,  and  in  which 
coffers,  on  the  apprehension  of  Jeronimo,  he  had  deposited 
the  instruments  of  coining,  lest  they  should  be  found  in 
his  own  possession.  The  confession  terminated  with  enu- 
merating such  of  the  gang  as  were  yet  living,  and  point- 
ing out  their  places  of  asylum  and  concealment. 

The  execution  of  Jeronimo,  as  has  been  related,  was 
in  its  actual  operation.  The  first  step  of  the  president, 
therefore,  was  to  hurry  one  of  the  officers  to  stop  its  prog- 
ress, and  in  the  same  moment  to  send  off  two  or  three 
detachments  of  the  city  guard  to  seize  the  accused  parties 
before  they  should  learn  from  public  report  the  death  of 
their  comrade.  The  guards  executed  their  purpose  suc- 
cessfully ;  the  malefactors  were  all  taken  and  brought  to 
the  tribunal  the  same  evening.  The  result  was,  that  one 
of  them  became  evidence  against  his  comrades,  and  thus 
confirmed  the  truth  of  the  confession,  and  the  innocence 
of  Jeronimo. 

The  president,  in  order  to  make  all  possible  atonement, 
ordered  a  public  meeting  of  all  the  citizens  of  Padua  to  be 
summoned  on  the  following  day.  Jeronimo  was  then  pro- 
duced, upon  which  the  president,  descending  from  his  tri- 
bunal, took  him  by  the  hand,  and  led  him  up  to  a  seat  by 
the  side  of  him,  on  the  bench  of  justice :  the  crier  then 
proclaimed  silence  ;  upon  which  the  president  rose,  and 
read  the  confession  of  the  malefactor  who  died  in  the 
prison,  and  the  transactions  of  the  others,  concluding  the 
whole  by  declaring  the  innocence  of  Jeronimo,  and  re- 
storing him  to  his  credit,  his  fortune,  and  the  good  opinion 
of  his  fellow-citizens. 


296  MASTER    AND    MAN. 

Thus  ended  the  misfortunes  of  a  man  who  had  provok- 
ed the  chastisement  of  Heaven  by  his  vanity  and  self-glory. 
— The  course  of  Providence  is  uniform  in  all  ages  of  the 
world  :  when  blessings  are  contemned,  they  are  with- 
drawn— when  the  man  unduly  elevates  himself,  the  mo- 
ment of  his  humiliation  is  at  hand. 


MASTER  AND   MAN. 

BILLY  MAC  DANIEL  was  once  as  likely  a  young  man  as 
ever  shook  his  brogue  at  a  patron,  emptied  a  quart,  or 
handled  a  shillelagh  :  fearing  for  nothing  but  the  want  of 
drink ;  caring  for  nothing  but  who  should  pay  for  it ;  and 
thinking  of  nothing  but  how  to  make  fun  over  it ;  drunk 
or  sober,  a  word  and  a  blow  was  ever  the  way  with  Billy 
Mac  Daniel ;  and  a  mighty  easy  way  it  is  of  either  getting 
into  or  ending  a  dispute.  More  is  the  pity,  that,  through 
the  means  of  his  thinking,  and  fearing,  and  caring  for 
nothing,  this  same  Billy  Mac  Daniel  fell  into  bad  com- 
pany; for  surely  the  good  people  (the  fairies)  are  the  worst 
of  all  company  any  one  could  come  across. 

It  so  happened,  that  Billy  was  going  home  one  very 
clear  frosty  night,  not  long  after  Christmas:  the  moon  was 
round  and  bright ;  but,  although  it  was  as  fine  a  night  as 
heart  could  wish  for,  he  felt  pinched  with  the  cold.  "  By 
my  word,"  chattered  Billy,  "  a  drop  of  good  liquor  would 
be  no  bad  thing  to  keep  a  man's  soul  from  freezing  in 
him ;  and  I  wish  I  had  a  full  measure  of  the  best." 

"  Never  wish  it  twice,  Billy,"  said  a  little  man  in  a 
three-cornered  hat,  bound  all  about  with  gold  lace,  and 
with  great  silver  buckles  in  his  shoes,  so  big  that  it  was  a 
wonder  how  he  could  carry  them ;  and  he  held  out  a  glass 
as  big  as  himself,  filled  with  as  good  liquor  as  ever  eye  look- 
ed on  or  I'1"*  tasted. 


MASTER    AND    MAN.  297 

"  Success,  my  little  fellow,"  said  Billy  Mac  Daniel, 
nothing  daunted,  though  well  he  knew  the  little  man  to 
belong  to  the  good  people;  "  here's  your  health,  any  way, 
and  thank  you  kindly ;  no  matter  who  pays  for  the  drink  ; " 
and  he  took  the  glass,  and  drained  it  to  the  very  bottom, 
without  ever  taking  a  second  to  it. 

"  Success,"  said  the  little  man ;  "  and  you're  heartily 
welcome,  Billy;  but  don't  think  to  cheat  me  as  you  have 
done  others — out  with  your  purse,  and  pay  me,  like  a  gen- 
tleman." 

"Is  it  I  pay  you  ?  "  said  Billy  ;  "  could  I  not  just  take 
you  up  and  put  you  in  my  pocket  as  easily  as  a  black- 
berry ?  " 

"  Billy  Mac  Daniel,"  said  the  little  man,  getting  very 
angry,  "  you  shall  be  my  servant  for  seven  years  and  a 
day,  and  that  is  the  way  I  will  be  paid ;  so  make  ready  to 
follow  me." 

When  Billy  heard  this,  he  began  to  be  very  sorry  for 
having  used  such  bold  words  towards  the  little  man  ;  and 
he  felt  himself,  yet  could  not  tell  how,  obliged  to  follow 
the  little  man  the  livelong  night  about  the  country,  up  and 
down,  and  over  hedge  and  ditch,  and  through  bog  and 
brake,  without  any  rest. 

When  morning  began  to  dawn,  the  little  man  turned 
round  to  him,  and  said,  "  You  may  now  go  home,  Billy, 
but  on  your  peril  don't  fail  to  meet  me  in  the  Fort-field 
to-night ;  or,  if  you  do,  it  may  be  the  worse  for  you  in  the 
long  run.  If  I  find  you  a  good  servant,  you  will  find  me 
an  indulgent  master." 

Home  went  Billy  Mac  Daniel ;  and  though  he  was  tired 
and  wearied  enough,  never  a  wink  of  sleep  could  he  get 
for  thinking  of  the  little  man ;  and  he  was  afraid  not  to 
do  his  bidding;  so  up  he  got  in  the  evening,  and  away  he 
went  to  the  Fort-field.  He  was  not  long  there  before  the 
little  man  came  towards  him,  and  said,  "  Billy,  I  want  to 
go  a  long  journey  to-night ;  so  saddle  one  of  my  horses, 


298  MASTER    AND    MAN. 

and  you  may  saddle  another  for  yourself,  as  you  are  to 
go  along  with  me,  and  may  be  tired  after  your  walk 
last  night." 

Billy  thought  this  very  considerate  of  his  master,  and 
thanked  him  accordingly.  "  But,"  said  he,  "  if  I  may  be 
so  bold,  sir,  I  would  ask,  which  is  the  way  to  your  stable? 
for  never  a  thing  do  I  see  but  the  Fort  here,  and  the  old 
tree  in  the  corner  of  the  field,  and  the  stream  running  at 
the  bottom  of  the  hill,  with  the  bit  of  bog  over  against  us." 

"  Ask  no  questions,  Billy,"  said  the  little  man,  "  but  go 
over  to  that  bit  of  bog,  and  bring  me  two  of  the  strongest 
rushes  you  can  find." 

Billy  did  accordingly,  wondering  what  the  little  man 
would  be  at ;  and  he  picked  out  two  of  the  stoutest  rushes 
he  could  find,  with  a  little  bunch  of  brown  blossom  stuck 
at  the  side  of  each,  and  brought  them  back  to  his  master. 

"  Get  up,  Billy,"  said  the  little  man,  taking  one  of  the 
rushes  from  him,  and  striding  across  it. 

"  Where  shall  I  get  up,  please  your  honor  ?  "  said  Billy. 

"  Why,  upon  horseback,  like  me,  to  be  sure,"  said  the 
little  man. 

"  Is  it  after  making  a  fool  of  me  you'd  be,"  said  Billy, 
"  bidding  me  get  a-horseback  upon  that  bit  of  a  rush  ? 
May  be  you  want  to  persuade  me  that  the  rush  I  pulled 
but  awhile  ago  out  of  the  bog  there,  is  a  horse  ?  " 

"  Up  !  up !  and  no  words,"  said  the  little  man,  looking 
very  angry ;  "  the  best  horse  you  ever  rode  was  but  a  fool 
to  it."  So  Billy,  thinking  all  this  was  in  joke,  and  fear- 
ing to  vex  his  master,  straddled  across  the  rush.  "  Bor- 
ram  !  Borram  !  Borram !  "  cried  the  little  man  three  times 
(which  in  English  means,  to  become  great)  ;  and  Billy  did 
the  same  after  him :  presently  the  rushes  swelled  up  into 
fine  horses,  and  away  they  went  full  speed;  but  Billy,  who 
had  put  the  rush  between  his  legs  without  much  minding 
how  he  did  it,  found  himself  sitting  on  horseback  the 
wrong  way,  which  was  rather  awkward,  with  his  face  to 


MASTER    AND    MAN.  299 

the  horse's  tail ;  and  so  quickly  had  his  steed  started  off 
with  him,  that  he  had  no  power  to  turn  round ;  and  there 
was  therefore  nothing  for  it  but  to  hold  on  by  the  tail. 

At  last  they  came  to  their  journey's  end,  and  stopped 
at  the  gate  of  a  fine  house.  "  Now,  Billy,"  said  the  little 
man,  "  do  as  you  see  me  do,  and  follow  me  close ;  but  as 
you  did  not  know  your  horse's  head  from  his  tail,  mind  that 
your  own  head  does  not  spin  round  until  you  can't  tell 
whether  you  are  standing  on  it  or  on  your  heels." 

The  little  man  then  said  some  queer  kind  of  words,  out 
of  which  Billy  could  make  no  meaning ;  but  he  contrived 
to  say  them  after  him  for  all  that ;  and  in  they  both  went 
through  the  keyhole  of  the  door,  and  through  one  key- 
hole after  another,  until  they  got  into  the  wine-cellar, 
which  was  well  stored  with  all  kinds  of  wine. 

The  little  man  fell  to  drinking  as  hard  as  he  could,  and 
Billy,  nowise  disliking  the  example,  did  the  same.  "  The 
best  of  masters  are  you,  surely,"  said  Billy  to  him;  "  no 
matter  who  is  the  next ;  and  well  pleased  will  I  be  with 
your  service  if  you  continue  to  give  me  plenty  to  drink." 

"  I  have  made  no  bargain  with  you,"  said  the  little  man, 
"  and  will  make  none ;  but  up  and  follow  me."  Away 
they  went,  through  keyhole  after  keyhole;  and  each, 
mounting  upon  the  rush  which  he  left  at  the  hall  door, 
scampered  off,  kicking  the  clouds  before  them  like  snow- 
balls, as  soon  as  the  words  "  Borram,  Borram,  Borram," 
had  passed  their  lips. 

When  they  came  back  to  the  Fort-field,  the  little  man 
dismissed  Billy,  bidding  him  to  be  there  the  next  night  at 
the  same  hour.  Thus  did  they* go  on,  night  after  night, 
shaping  their  course  one  night  here,  and  another  night 
there — sometimes  north,  and  sometimes  east,  and  some- 
times south,  until  there  was  not  a  gentleman's  wine-cellar 
in  all  Ireland  they  had  not  visited,  and  could  tell  the  flavor 
of  every  wine  in  it  as  well — ay,  better — than  the  butler 
himself. 


300  MASTER    AND    MAN. 

One  night,  when  Billy  Mac  Daniel  met  the  little  man  as 
usual  in  the  Fort-field,  and  was  going  to  the  bog  to  fetch 
the  horses  for  their  journey,  his  master  said  to  him,  "  Billy, 
I  shall  want  another  horse  to-night,  for  may  be  we  may 
bring  back  more  company  with  us  than  we  take."  So 
Billy,  who  now  knew  better  than  to  question  any  order 
given  to  him  by  his  master,  brought  a  third  rush,  much 
wondering  who  it  might  be  that  would  travel  back  in  their 
company,  and  whether  he  was  about  to  have  a  fellow-ser- 
vant. "  If  I  have,"  thought  Billy,  "  he  shall  go  and  fetch 
the  horses  from  the  bog  every  night ;  for  I  don't  see  why 
I  am  not,  every  inch  of  me,  as  good  a  gentleman  as  my 
master." 

Well,  away  they  went,  Billy  leading  the  third  horse, 
and  never  stopped  until  they  came  to  a  snug  farmer's 
house  in  the  county  of  Limerick,  close  under  the  old  cas- 
tle of  Carrigogunniel,  that  was  built,  they  say,  by  the 
great  Brian  Boru.  Within  the  house  there  was  great  ca- 
rousing going  forward ;  and  the  little  man  stopped  outside 
for  some  time  to  listen ;  then,  turning  round  all  of  a 
sudden,  he  said,  "  Billy,  I  will  be  a  thousand  years  old 
to-morrow." 

"  God  bless  us !  sir,"  said  Billy,  "  will  you  ?  " 

"  Don't  say  these  words  again,"  said  the  little  man,  "or 
you  will  be  my  ruin  forever.  Now,  Billy,  as  I  will  be  a 
thousand  years  in  the  world  to-morrow,  I  think  it  is  full 
time  for  me  to  get  married." 

"  I  think  so  too,  without  any  kind  of  doubt  at  all,"  said 
Billy,  "  if  ever  you  mean  to  marry." 

"  And  to  that  purpose,"  said  the  little  man,  "  have  I 
come  all  the  way  to  Carrigogunniel ;  for  in  this  house, 
this  very  night,  is  young  Darby  Riley  going  to  be  married 
to  Bridget  Rooney ;  and  as  she  is  a  tall  and  comely  girl, 
and  has  come  of  decent  people,  I  think  of  marrying  her 
myself,  and  taking  her  off  with  me." 

"  And  what  will  Darby  Riley  say  to  that  ?  "  said  Billy. 


MASTER    AND    MAN.  301 

"  Silence !  "  said  the  little  man,  putting  on  a  mighty  se- 
vere look ;  "  I  did  not  bring  you  here  with  me  to  ask  ques- 
tions;" and,  without  holding  further  argument,  he  began 
saying  the  queer  words  which  had  the  power  of  passing 
him  through  the  keyhole  as  free  as  air,  and  which  Billy 
thought  himself  mighty  clever  to  be  able  to  say  after  him. 

In  they  both  went ;  and,  for  the  better  viewing  the 
company,  the  little  man  perched  himself  up,  as  nimbly  as 
a  cock-sparrow,  upon  one  of  the  big  beams  which  went 
across  the  house  over  all  their  heads,  and  Billy  did  the 
same  upon  another  facing  him ;  but  not  being  much  ac- 
customed to  roosting  in  such  a  place,  his  legs  hung  down 
as  untidy  as  may  be ;  and  it  was  quite  clear  he  had  not 
taken  pattern  after  the  way  in  which  the  little  man  had 
bundled  himself  up  together.  If  the  little  man  had  been 
a  tailor  all  his  life,  he  could  not  have  sat  more  content- 
edly upon  his  haunches. 

There  they  were,  both  master  and  man,  looking  down 
upon  the  fun  that  was  going  forward ;  and  under  them 
were  the  priest  and  piper,  and  the  father  of  Darby  Riley, 
with  Darby's  two  brothers  and  his  uncle's  son  ;  and  there 
were  both  the  father  and  the  mother  of  Bridget  Rooney, — - 
and  proud  enough  the  old  couple  were  that  night  of  their 
daughter,  as  good  right  they  had, — and  her  four  sisters, 
with  bran  new  ribands  in  their  caps,  and  her  three  broth- 
ers, all  looking  as  clean  and  as  clever  as  any  three  boys  in 
Munster ;  and  there  were  uncles  and  aunts,  and  gossips 
and  cousins,  enough,  besides,  to  make  a  full  house  of  it ; 
and  plenty  was  there  to  eat  and  drink  on  the  table  for 
every  one  of  them,  if  they  had  been  double  the  number. 

Now  it  happened,  just  as  Mrs.  Rooney  had  helped  his 
reverence  to  the  first  cut  of  the  pig's  head  which  was 
placed  before  her,  beautifully  bolstered  up  with  white 
savoys,  that  the  bride  gave  a  sneeze  which  made  every 
one  at  table  start;  but  not  a  soul  said  "  God  bless  us."  All 
thinking  that  the  priest  would  have  done  so,  as  he  ought, 
26 


302  MASTER    AND    MAN. 

if  he  had  done  his  duty,  no  one  wished  to  take  tne  word 
out  of  his  mouth,  which,  unfortunately,  was  preoccupied 
with  pig's  head  and  greens.  And,  after  a  moment's  pause, 
the  fun  and  merriment  of  the  bridal  feast  went  on  without 
the  pious  benediction. 

Of  this  circumstance  both  Billy  and  his  master  were 
no  inattentive  spectators  from  their  exalted  stations. 
"  Ha!  "  exclaimed  the  little  man,  throwing  one  leg  from 
under  him  with  a  joyous  flourish ;  and  his  eye  twinkled 
with  a  strange  light,  whilst  his  eyebrows  became  elevated 
into  the  curvature  of  Gothic  arches — "  Ha ! "  said  he,  leer- 
ing down  at  the  bride,  and  then  up  at  Billy,  "  I  have  half 
of  her  now,  surely.  Let  her  sneeze  but  twice  more, 
and  she  is  mine,  in  spite  of  priest,  mass-book,  and  Darby 
Riley." 

Again  the  fair  Bridget  sneezed ;  but  it  was  so  gently, 
and  she  blushed  so  much,  that  few,  except  the  little  man, 
took,  or  seemed  to  take,  any  notice  ;  and  no  one  thought 
of  saying  "  God  bless  us." 

Billy  all  this  time  regarded  the  poor  girl  with  a  most 
rueful  expression  of  countenance ;  for  he  could  not  help 
thinking  what  a  terrible  thing  it  was  for  a  nice  young  girl 
of  nineteen,  with  large  blue  eyes,  transparent  skin,  dim- 
pled cheeks,  suffused  with  health  and  joy,  to  be  obliged  to 
marry  an  ugly  little  bit  of  a  man,  who  was  a  thousand 
years  old,  barring  a  day. 

At  this  critical  moment,  the  bride  gave  a  third  sneeze, 
and  Billy  roared  out  with  all  his  might,  "  God  bless  us !  " 
Whether  this  exclamation  resulted  from  his  soliloquy,  or 
from  the  mere  force  of  habit,  he  never  could  tell  exactly 
himself;  but  no  sooner  was  it  uttered,  than  the  little  man, 
his  face  glowing  with  rage  and  disappointment,  sprung 
from  the  beam  on  which  he  had  perched  himself,  and, 
shrieking  out  in  the  shrill  voice  of  a  cracked  bagpipe,  "  I 
discharge  you  my  service,  Billy  Mac  Daniel — take  that  for 
your  wages  " — gave  poor  Billy-  a  most  furious  kick  in  the 


THE    VENETIAN    GIRL.  303 

back,  which  sent  his  unfortunate  servant  sprawling  upon 
his  face  and  hands  right  in  the  middle  of  the  supper  table. 
If  Billy  was  astonished,  how  much  more  so  was  every 
one  of  the  company  into  which  he  was  thrown  with  so  lit- 
tle ceremony !  but  when  they  heard  his  story,  father 
Cooney  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and  married  the 
young  couple  out  of  hand  with  all  speed  ;  and  Billy  Mac 
Daniel  danced  the  Rinka  at  their  wedding  ;  and  plenty  did 
he  drink  at  it  too,  which  was  what  he  thought  more  of 
than  dancing. 


THE   VENETIAN    GIRL. 

THE  sun  was  shining  beautifully  one  summer  evening, 
as  if  he  bade  a  sparkling  farewell  to  a  world  which  he  had 
made  happy.  It  seemed  also  by  his  looks  as  if  he  promised 
to  make  his  appearance  again  to-morrow  ;  but  there  was, 
at  times,  a  deep-breathing  western  wind  ;  and  dark  purple 
clouds  came  up  here  and  there,  like  gorgeous  waiters  on  a 
funeral.  The  children  in  a  village  not  far  from  the  me- 
tropolis were  playing,  however,  on  the  green,  content  with 
the  brightness  of  the  moment,  when  they  saw  a  female  ap- 
proaching, who  instantly  gathered  them  about  her  by  the 
singularity  of  her  dress.  It  was  not  very  extraordinary  ; 
but  any  difference  from  the  usual  apparel  of  their  country- 
women appeared  so  to  them  ;  and  crying  out,  "  A  French 
girl,  a  French  girl ! "  they  ran  up  to  her,  and  stood  look- 
ing and  talking.  She  seated  herself  upon  a  bench  that 
was  fixed  between  two  elms,  and  for  a  moment  leaned  her 
head  against  one  of  them,  as  if  faint  with  walking.  But 
she  raised  it  speedily,  and  smiled  with  great  complacence 
on  the  rude  urchins.  She  had  a  bodice  and  petticoat  on 


304  THE    VENETIAN    GIRL. 

of  different  colors,  and  a  handkerchief  tied  neatly  about 
her  head  with  the  point  behind.  On  her  hands  were 
gloves  without  fingers ;  and  she  wore  about  her  neck  a 
guitar,  upon  the  strings  of  which  one  of  her  hands  rested. 
The  children  thought  her  very  handsome.  Any  one  else 
would  also  have  thought  her  very  ill ;  but  they  saw  nothing 
in  her  but  a  good-natured  looking  foreigner  and  a  guitar, 
and  they  asked  her  to  play.  "  Oh  che  bei  ragazzi  !  "  said 
she,  in  a  soft  and  almost  inaudible  voice  ; — "  Che  visi  li- 
eti !  "  and  she  began  to  play.  She  tried  to  sing,  too  ;  but 
her  voice  failed  her,  and  she  shook  her  head  smilingly, 
saying,  "  Stanca  !  Stanca!  "  "  Sing,  do  sing,"  said  the 
children  ;  and,  nodding  her  head,  she  was  trying  to  do  so, 
when  a  set  of  schoolboys  came  up  and  joined  in  the  request. 
"No,  no,"  said  one  of  the  elder  boys,  "she  is  not  well. 
You  are  ill,  a'n't  you, — miss  1 "  added  he,  laying  his  hand 
upon  hers,  as  if  to  hinder  it.  He  drew  out  the  last  word 
somewhat  doubtfully,  for  her  appearance  perplexed  him  ; 
he  scarcely  knew  whether  to  take  her  for  a  common  stroll- 
er, or  a  lady  straying  from  a  sick  bed.  "Grazie!"  said 
she,  understanding  his  look  ;  "  troppo  stanca  ;  troppo." 
By  this  time  the  usher  came  up,  and  addressed  her  in 
French ;  but  she  only  understood  a  word  here  and  there. 
He  then  spoke  Latin,  and  she  repeated  one  or  two  of  his 
words,  as  if  they  were  familiar  to  her.  "  She  is  an  Ital- 
ian, "  said  he,  looking  round  with  good-natured  impor- 
tance. "  Non  dubito,"  continued  the  usher,  "  quin  tu 
lectitas  poe'tam  ilium  celeberrimum,  Tassonem  ;  Taxum 
I  should  say,  properly,  but  the  departure  from  the  Italian 
name  is  considerable."  The  stranger  did  not  understand 
a  word.  "  I  speak  of  Tasso,"  said  the  usher — "  of  Tas- 
so."  "  Tasso !  Tasso !  "  repeated  the  fair  minstrel ;  "  oh 


THE    VENETIAN    GIRL.  305 

— conhosco — Tas-so  ;  "  and  she  hung  with  a  beautiful 
languor  upon  the  first  syllable.  "  Yes,"  returned  the  wor- 
thy scholar,  "  doubtless  your  accent  may  be  better.  Then, 
of  course,  you  know  those  classical  lines — 

'  Intanto  Erminia  infra  1'ombrose  piante 
D'antica  selva  dal  cavallo — ' 

what  is  it?" 

The  stranger  repeated  the  words  in  a  tone  of  fondness, 
like  those  of  an  old  friend  : — 

"  Intanto  Erminia  infra  1'ombrose  piante 
D'antica  selva  dal  cavallo  e  scorta; 
Ne  piu  governo  il  fren  la  man  tremante, 
E  mezza  quasi  par  tra  viva  e  morta." 

Our  usher's  common-place  book  had  supplied  him  with 
a  fortunate  passage,  for  it  was  the  favorite  song  of  her 
countrymen.  It  also  singularly  applied  to  her  situation. 
There  was  a  sort  of  exquisite  mixture  of  silver  clearness 
and  soft  mealiness  in  her  utterance  of  these  verses,  which 
gave  some  of  the  children  a  better  idea  of  French  than 
they  had  had  ;  for  they  could  not  get  it  out  of  their  heads 
that  she  must  be  a  French  girl ;  "  Italian-French,  per- 
haps/' said  one  of  them.  But  her  voice  trembled,  as  she 
went  on,  like  the  hand  she  spoke  of.  "I  have  heard  my 
poor  cousin  Montague  sing  those  very  lines,"  said  the  boy 
who  prevented  her  from  playing.  "  Montague,"  repeated 
the  stranger  very  plainly,  but  turning  paler  and  fainter. 
She  put  one  of  her  hands,  in  turn,  upon  the  boy's,  affec- 
tionately, and  pointed  towards  the  spot  where  the  church 
was.  "  Yes,  yes,"  cried  the  boy ;  "  why,  she  knew  my 


26 


306  THE    VENETIAN    GIRL. 

cousin; — she  must  have  known  him  in  Venice."  "  I  told 
you,"  said  the  usher,  "  she  was  an  Italian."  "  Help  her 
to  my  aunt's,"  continued  the  youth ;  "  she'll  understand 
her : — lean  upon  me,  miss ;  "  and  he  repeated  the  last  word 
without  his  former  hesitation. 

Only  a  few  boys  followed  her  to  the  door,  the  rest  hav- 
ing been  awed  away  by  the  usher.  As  soon  as  the  stran- 
ger entered  the  house,  and  saw  an  elderly  lady,  who  receiv- 
ed her  kindly,  she  exclaimed,  "  La  Signora  Madre,"  and 
fell  in  a  swoon  at  her  feet. 

She  was  taken  to  bed,  and  attended  with  the  utmost 
care  by  her  hostess,  who  would  not  suffer  her  to  talk  till 
she  had  had  a  sleep.  She  merely  heard  enough  to  find 
out  that  the  stranger  had  known  her  son  in  Italy ;  and 
she  was  thrown  into  a  painful  state  of  guessing  by  the 
poor  girl's  eyes,  which  followed  her  about  the  room  till 
the  lady  fairly  came  up  and  closed  them.  "Obedient! 
Obedient !  "  said  the  patient ;  "  obedient  in  every  thing  ; 
only  the  signora  will  let  me  kiss  her  hand  ;  "  and,  taking 
it  with  her  own  trembling  one,  she  laid  her  cheek  upon  it ; 
and  it  staid  there  till  she  dropped  asleep  for  weariness. 

" Silken  rest 


Tie  all  thy  cares  up," 

thought  her  kind  watcher,  who  was  doubly  thrown  upon  a 
recollection  of  that  beautiful  passage  in  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  by  the  suspicion  she  had  of  the  cause  of  the 
girl's  visit.  "  And  yet,"  thought  she,  turning  her  eyes, 
with  a  thin  tear  in  them,  towards  the  church  spire,  "  he 
was  an  excellent  boy — the  boy  of  my  heart." 

When  the  stranger  woke,  the  secret  was  explained  ; 
and  if  the  mind  of  her  hostess  was  relieved,  it  was  only 
the  more  touched  with  pity,  and,  indeed,  moved  with  re- 
spect and  admiration.  The  dying  girl  (for  she  was  evi- 
dently dying,  and  happy  at  the  thought  of  it)  was  the 


THE    VENETIAN    GIRL.  307 

niece  of  an  humble  tradesman  in  Venice,  at  whose  house 
young  Montague,  who  was  a  gentleman  of  small  fortune, 
had  lodged,  and  fallen  sick  in  his  travels.  She  was  a  live- 
ly, good-natured  girl,  whom  he  used  to  hear  coquetting 
and  playing  the  guitar  with  her  neighbors;  and  it  was 
greatly  on  this  account,  that  her  considerate  and  hushing 
gravity  struck  him  whenever  she  entered  his  room.  One 
day  he  heard  no  more  coquetting,  nor  even  the  guitar. 
He  asked  the  reason,  when  she  came  to  give  him  some 
drink ;  and  she  said  that  she  had  heard  him  mention  some 
noise  that  disturbed  him.  "But  you  do  not  call  your 
voice  and  your  music  a  noise,"  said  he,  "  do  you,  Rosaura? 
I  hope  not,  for  I  had  expected  it  would  give  me  double 
strength  to  get  rid  of  this  fever  and  reach  home."  Ro- 
saura turned  pale,  and  let  the  patient  into  a  secret ;  but 
what  surprised  and  delighted  him  was,  that  she  played 
her  guitar  nearly  as  often  as  before,  and  sung  too,  only 
less  sprightly  airs.  "  You  get  better  and  better,  signor," 
said  she,  "  every  day  ;  and  your  mother  will  see  you  and 
be  happy.  I  hope  you  will  tell  her  what  a  good  doctor 
you  had."  "  The  best  in  the  world,"  cried  he,  as  he  sat 
up  in  bed  :  he  put  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and  kissed 
her.  "  He  begged  my  pardon,"  said  the  poor  girl, 
"  as  I  was  hastening  out  of  the  room,  and  hoped  I 
should  not  construe  his  warmth  into  impertinence;  and 
to  hear  him  talk  so  to  me,  who  used  to  fear  what  he 
might  think  of  myself — it  made  me  stand  in  the  passage, 
and  lean  my  head  against  the  wall,  and  weep  such  bitter 
and  yet  such  sweet  tears !  But  he  did  not  hear  me  : — 
no,  madam,  he  did  not  know,  indeed,  how  much  I — how 
much  I — "  "  Loved  him,  child,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Montague  ;  "  you  have  a  right  to  say  so ;  and  I  wish  he 
had  been  alive  to  say  as  much  to  you  himself."  "  Oh," 
said  the  dying  girl,  her  tears  flowing  away,  "  this  is  too 
great  a  happiness  for  me,  to  hear  his  own  mother  talk- 


308  THE    VENETIAN    GIRL. 

ing  so."  And  again  she  lays  her  weak  head  upon  the  lady's 
hand.  The  latter  would  have  persuaded  her  to  sleep 
again,  but  she  said  she  could  not  for  joy  ;  "  for  I'll  tell 
you,  madam,"  continued  she  ;  "  I  do  not  believe  you'll 
think  it  foolish,  for  something  very  grave  at  my  heart  tells 
me  it  is  not  so ;  but  I  have  had  a  long  thought"  (and  her 
voice  and  look  grew  somewhat  more  exalted  as  she  spoke), 
"  which  has  supported  me,  through  much  toil  and  many 
disagreeable  things,  to  this  country  and  this  place ;  and  I 
will  tell  you  what  it  is,  and  how  it  came  into  my  mind.  I 
received  this  letter  from  your  son."  Here  she  drew  out  a 
paper,  which,  though  carefully  wrapped  up  in  several  oth- 
ers, was  much  worn  at  the  sides.  It  was  dated  from  the 
village,  and  ran  thus  : — "  This  comes  from  the  English- 
man whom  Rosaura  nursed  so  kindly  at  Venice.  She  will 
be  sorry  to  hear  that  her  kindness  was  in  vain,  for  he  is 
dying;  and  he  sometimes  fears,  that  her  sorrow  will  be 
still  greater  than  he  could  wish  it  to  be.  But  marry  one 
of  your  kind  countrymen,  my  good  girl ;  for  all  must  love 
Rosaura  who  know  her.  If  it  shall  be  my  lot  ever  to  meet 
her  in  heaven,  I  will  thank  her  as  a  blessed  tongue  only 
can."  "  As  soon  as  I  read  this  letter,  madam,  and  what 
he  said  about  heaven,  it  flashed  into  my  head,  that,  though 
I  did  not  deserve  him  on  earth,  I  might,  perhaps,  by  try- 
ing and  patience,  deserve  to  be  joined  with  him  in  heaven, 
where  there  is  no  distinction  of  persons.  My  uncle  was 
pleased  to  see  me  become  a  religious  pilgrim  ;  but  he  knew 
as  little  of  the  contract  as  I ;  and  I  found  that  I  could 
earn  my  way  to  England  better,  and  quite  as  religiously,  by 
playing  my  guitar,  which  was  also  more  independent ;  and 
I  had  often  heard  your  son  talk  of  independence  and  free- 
dom, and  commend  me  for  doing  what  he  was  pleased  to 
call  so  much  kindness  to  others.  So  I  played  my  guitar 
from  Venice  all  the  way  to  England  ;  and  all  that  I  earned 
by  it  I  gave  away  to  the  poor,  keeping  enough  to  procure 


one  prayer  for  me,  dear  lady." 


THE    VENETIAN    GIRL.  309 

me  lodging.  I  lived  on  bread  and  water,  and  used  to 
weep  happy  tears  over  it,  because  I  looked  up  to  heaven, 
and  thought  he  might  see  me.  So,  playing  and  giving 
alms  in  this  manner,  I  arrived  in  the  neighborhood  of  your 
beloved  village,  where  I  fell  sick  for  a  while,  and  was  very 
kindly  treated  in  an  outhouse ;  though  the  people,  I 
thought,  seemed  to  look  strange  arid  afraid  on  this  cruci- 
fix,— though  your  son  never  did, — but  he  taught  me  to 
think  kindly  of  every  body,  and  hope  the  best,  and  leave 
every  thing,  except  our  own  endeavors,  to  Heaven.  I  fell 
sick,  madam,  because  I  found  for  certain  that  the  Signer 
Montague  was  dead,  albeit  I  had  no  hope  that  he  was 
alive."  She  stopped  awhile  for  breath,  for  she  was  grow- 
ing weaker  and  weaker ;  and  her  hostess  would  fain  have 
had  her  keep  silence  ;  but  she  pressed  her  hand  as  well 
as  she  might,  and  prayed  with  such  a  patient  panting  of 
voice  to  be  allowed  to  go  on,  that  she  was.  She  smiled 
beautifully,  and  resumed  : — "  So,  when — so,  when  I  got  my 
strength  a  little  again,  I  walked  on,  and  came  to  the  belov- 
ed village ;  and  I  saw  the  beautiful  white  church  spire  in 
the  trees ;  and  then  I  knew  where  his  body  slept ;  and  I 
thought  some  kind  person  would  help  me  to  die  with  my 
face  looking  towards  the  church,  as  it  now  does ;  and 
death  is  upon  me,  even  now;  but  lift  me  a  little  higher  on 
the  pillows,  dear  lady,  that  I  may  see  the  green  ground  of 
the  hill." 

She  was  raised  up  as  she  wished,  and,  after  looking 
a  while  with  a  placid  feebleness  at  the  hill,  said,  in  a  very 
low  voice,  "  Say  one  prayer  for  me,  dear  lady,  and  if  it  be 
not  too  proud  in  me,  call  me  in  it  your  daughter."  The 
mother  of  her  beloved  summoned  up  a  grave  and  earnest 
voice,  as  well  as  she  might,  and  knelt,  and  said,  "  O  heav- 
enly Father  of  us  all,  who,  in  the  midst  of  thy  manifold 
and  merciful  bounties,  bringest  us  into  strong  passes  of  an- 
guish, which,  nevertheless,  thou  enablest  us  to  go  through, 
look  down,  we  beseech  thee,  upon  this  thy  young  and  in- 


310  COUSIN    MARY. 

nocent  servant,  the  daughter,  that  might  have  been,  of  my 
heart,  and  enable  her  spirit  to  pass  through  the  struggling 
bonds  of  mortality  and  be  gathered  into  thy  rest  with  those 
we  love : — do,  dear  and  great  God,  of  thy  infinite  mercy  ; 
for  we  are  poor,  weak  creatures,  both  young  and  old."  Here 
her  voice  melted  away  into  a  breathing  tearfulness  ;  and 
after  remaining  on  her  knees  a  moment,  she  rose,  and  look- 
ed upon  the  bed,  and  saw  that  the  weary,  smiling  one 
was  no  more. 


COUSIN  MARY. 

ABOUT  four  years  ago,  passing  a  few  days  with  the 
highly-educated  daughters  of  some  friends  in  this  neigh- 
borhood, I  found  domesticated  in  the  family  a  young  lady, 
whom  I  shall  call,  as  they  called  her,  cousin  Mary.  She 
was  about  eighteen,  not  beautiful,  perhaps,  but  lovely 
certainly  to  the  fullest  extent  of  that  loveliest  word ; — as 
fresh  as  a  rose :  as  fair  as  a  lily ;  with  lips  like  winter  ber- 
ries, dimpled,  smiling  lips;  and  eyes  of  which  nobody 
could  tell  the  color,  they  danced  so  incessantly  in  their 
own  gay  light.  Her  figure  was  tall,  round,  and  slender  : 
exquisitely  well  proportioned  it  must  have  been,  for,  in  all 
attitudes  (and,  in  her  innocent  gayety,  she  was  scarcely 
ever  two  minutes  in  the  same),  she  was  grace  itself.  She 
was,  in  short,  the  very  picture  of  youth,  health,  and  hap- 
piness. No  one  could  see  her  without  being  prepossessed 
in  her  favor.  I  took  a  fancy  to  her  the  moment  she  entered 
the  room ;  and  it  increased  every  hour,  in  spite  of,  or 
rather,  perhaps,  for,  certain  deficiencies,  which  caused  poor 
cousin  Mary  to  be  held  exceedingly  cheap  by  her  accom- 
plished relatives. 


COUSIN    MART.  311 

She  was  the  youngest  daughter  of  an  officer  of  rank, 
dead  long  ago;  and  his  sickly  widow,  having  lost  by  death, 
or  that  other  death,  marriage,  all  her  children  but  this, 
could  not,  from  very  fondness,  resolve  to  part  with  her 
darling  for  the  purpose  of  acquiring  the  commonest  instruc- 
tion. She  talked  of  it,  indeed,  now  and  then,  but  she  only 
talked  ;  so  that,  in  this  age  of  universal  education,  Mary  C., 
at  eighteen,  exhibited  the  extraordinary  phenomenon  of  a 
young  woman  of  high  family,  whose  acquirements  were 
limited  to  reading,  writing,  needle-work,  and  the  first  rules 
of  arithmetic.  The  effect  of  this  let-alone  system,  combin- 
ed with  a  careful  seclusion  from  all  improper  society,  and 
a  perfect  liberty  in  her  country  rambles,  acting  upon  a  mind 
of  great  power  and  activity,  was  the  very  reverse  of  what 
might  have  been  predicted.  It  had  produced  not  merely 
a  delightful  freshness  and  originality  of  manner  and  char- 
acter, a  piquant  ignorance  of  those  things  of  which  one  is 
tired  to  death,  but  knowledge — positive,  accurate,  and  va- 
rious knowledge. 

She  was,  to  be  sure,  wholly  unaccomplished ;  knew 
nothing  of  quadrilles,  though  her  every  motion  was  dan- 
cing :  nor  a  note  of  music,  though  she  used  to  warble,  like 
a  bird,  sweet  snatches  of  old  songs,  as  she  skipped  up  and 
down  the  house ;  nor  of  painting,  except  as  her  taste  had 
been  formed,  by  a  minute  acquaintance  with  nature,  into 
an  intense  feeling  of  art.  She  had  that  real  extra  sense,  an 
eye  for  color,  too,  as  well  as  an  ear  for  music.  Not  one  in 
twenty — not  one  in  a  hundred — of  our  sketching  and  copy- 
ing ladies  could  love  and  appreciate  a  picture  where  there 
was  color  and  mind,  a  picture  by  Claude,  or  by  our  Eng- 
lish Claudes,  Wilson  and  HofHand,  as  she  could  ;  for  she 
loved  landscape  best,  because  she  understood  it  best ;  it 
was  a  portrait  of  which  she  knew  the  original.  Then 
her  needle  was  in  her  hands  almost  a  pencil.  I  never 
knew  such  an  embroidress  :  she  would  sit  "  printing  her 
thoughts  on  lawn,"  till  the  delicate  creation  vied  with  the 


312  COUSIN    MARY. 

snowy  tracery,  the  fantastic  carving,  of  hoar  frost,  the 
richness  of  Gothic  architecture,  or  of  that  which  so  much 
resembles  it,  the  luxuriant  fancy  of  old  point  lace.  That 
was  her  only  accomplishment,  and  a  rare  artist  she  was — 
muslin  and  net  were  her  canvass. 

She  had  no  French  either,  not  a  word ;  no  Italian ;  but 
then  her  English  was  racy,  unhackneyed,  proper  to  the 
thought,  to  a  degree  that  only  original  thinking  could  give. 
She  had  not  much  reading,  except  of  the  Bible,  and  Shak- 
speare,  and  Richardson's  novels,  in  which  she  was  learn- 
ed ;  but  then  her  powers  of  observation  were  sharpened 
and  quickened,  in  a  very  unusual  degree,  by  the  leisure 
and  opportunity  afforded  for  their  .developement,  at  a  time 
of  life  when  they  are  most  acute.  She  had  nothing  to  dis- 
tract her  mind.  Her  attention  was  always  awake  and 
alive.  She  was  an  excellent  and  curious  naturalist,  mere- 
ly because  she  had  gone  into  the  fields  with  her  eyes  open, 
and  knew  all  the  details  of  rural  management,  domestic  or 
agricultural,  as  well  as  the  peculiar  habits  and  modes  of 
thinking  of  the  peasantry,  simply  because  she  had  lived  in 
the  country,  and  made  use  of  her  ears. 

Then  she  was  fanciful,  recollective,  new  ;  drew  her 
images  from  the  real  objects,  not  from  their  shadows  in 
books.  In  short,  to  listen  to  her,  and  the  young  ladies 
her  companions,  who,  accomplished  to  the  height,  had 
trodden  the  .education-mill  till  they  all  moved  in  one  step, 
had  lost  sense  in  sound,  and  ideas  in  words,  was  enough 
to  make  us  turn  masters  and  governesses  out  of  doors, 
and  leave  our  daughters  and  grand-daughters  to  Mrs. 
C.'s  system  of  non-instruction.  I  should  have  liked  to 
meet  with  another  specimen,  just  to  ascertain  whether 
the  peculiar  charm  and  advantage  arose  from  the  quick 
and  active  mind  of  this  fair  Ignorant,  or  was  really  the 
natural  and  inevitable  result  of  the  training ;  but,  alas  !  to 
find  more  than  one  unaccomplished  young  lady  in  this 
accomplished  age,  is  not  to  be  hoped  for.  So  I  admired 


COUSIN    MARY.  313 

and  envied  ;  and  her  fair  kinswomen  pitied  and  scorned, 
and  tried  to  teach;  and  Mary,  never  made  for  a  learner, 
and  as  full  of  animal  spirits  as  a  school-boy  in  the  holi- 
days, sang,  and  laughed,  and  skipped  about,  from  morning 
to  night. 

It  must  be  confessed,  as  a  counterbalance  to  her  other 
perfections,  that  the  dear  cousin  Mary  was,  as  far  as  great 
natural  modesty  and  an  occasional  touch  of  shyness  would 
let  her,  the  least  in  the  world  of  a  romp !  She  loved  to 
toss  about  children,  to  jump  over  stiles,  to  scramble  through 
hedges,  to  climb  trees;  and  some  of  her  knowledge  of 
plants  and  birds  may  certainly  have  arisen  from  her  de- 
light in  these  boyish  amusements.  And  which  of  us  has 
not  found  that  the  strongest,  the  healthiest,  and  most 
flourishing  acquirement  has  arisen  from  pleasure  or  acci- 
dent ;  has  been  in  a  manner  self-sown,  like  an  oak  of  the 
forest  ? — O,  she  was  a  sad  romp ;  as  skittish  as  a  wild 
colt,  as  uncertain  as  a  butterfly,  as  uncatchable  as  a  swal- 
low ;  but  her  great  personal  beauty,  the  charm,  grace,  and 
lightness  of  her  movements,  and,  above  all,  her  evident  in- 
nocence of  heart,  were  bribes  to  indulgence  which  no  one 
could  withstand.  I  never  heard  her  blamed  by  any  human 
being. 

The  perfect  unrestraint  of  her  attitudes,  and  the  exqui- 
site symmetry  of  her  form,  would  have  rendered  her  an 
invaluable  study  for  a  painter.  Her  daily  doings  would 
have  formed  a  series  of  pictures.  I  have  seen  her  scudding 
through  a  shallow  rivulet,  with  her  dress  caught  up  just  a 
little  above  the  ankle,  like  a  young  Diana,  and  a  bounding, 
skimming,  enjoying  motion,  as  if  native  to  the  element, 
which  might  have  become  a  Naiad.  I  have  seen  her  on 
the  topmost  round  of  a  ladder,  with  one  foot  on  the  roof 
of  a  house,  flinging  down  the  grapes  that  no  one  else  had 
nerve  enough  to  reach,  laughing,  and  garlanded,  and 
crowned  with  vine-leaves,  like  a  Bacchante. 

But  the  prettiest  combination  of  circumstances  under 
27 


314  COUSIN    MARY. 

which  1  ever  saw  her,  was  driving  a  donkey  cart  up  a  hill 
one  sunny,  windy  day  in  September.  It  was  a  gay  party 
of  young  women,  some  walking,  some  in  open  carriages  of 
different  descriptions,  bent  to  see  a  celebrated  prospect 
from  a  hill  called  the  Ridges.  The  ascent  was  by  a  steep, 
narrow  lane,  cut  deeply  between  sand-banks,  crowned  with 
high,  feathery  hedges.  The  road  and  its  picturesque  banks 
lay  bathed  in  the  golden  sunshine,  whilst  the  autumnal 
sky,  intensely  blue,  appeared  at  the  top  as  through  an  arch. 
The  hill  was  so  steep  that  we  had  all  dismounted,  and  left 
our  different  vehicles  in  charge  of  the  servants  below ;  but 
Mary,  to  whom,  as  incomparably  the  best  charioteer,  the 
conduct  of  a  certain  non-descript  machine,  a  sort  of 
donkey  curricle,  had  fallen,  determined  to  drive  a  delicate 
little  girl,  who  was  afraid  of  the  walk,  to  the  top  of  the 
eminence.  She  jumped  out  for  the  purpose,  and  we  fol- 
lowed, watching  and  admiring  her,  as  she  won  her  way 
up  the  hill ;  now  tugging  at  the  donkeys  in  front  with 
her  bright  face  towards  them  and  us,  and  springing  along 
backwards — now  pushing  the  chaise  from  behind — now 
running  by  the  side  of  her  steeds,  patting  and  caressing 
them — now  soothing  the  half-frightened  child — now  laugh- 
ing, nodding,  and  shaking  her  little  whip  at  us — darting 
about  like  some  winged  creature — till,  at  last,  she  stopped 
at  the  top  of  the  ascent,  and  stood  for  a  moment  on  the 
summit,  her  straw  bonnet  blown  back,  and  held  on  only 
by  the  strings ;  her  brown  hair  playing  on  the  wind  in  long 
natural  ringlets ;  her  complexion  becoming  every  moment 
more  splendid  from  exertion,  redder  and  whiter ;  her  eyes 
and  her  smile  brightening  and  dimpling ;  her  figure,  in  its 
simple  white  gown,  strongly  relieved  by  the  deep  blue  sky, 
and  her  whole  form  seeming  to  dilate  before  our  eyes. 
There  she  stood,  under  the  arch  formed  by  two  meeting 
elms,  a  Hebe,  a  Psyche,  a  perfect  goddess  of  youth  and 
joy.  The  Ridges  are  very  fine  things  altogether,  espe- 
cially the  part  to  which  we  were  bound — a  turfy,  breezy 


COUSIN    MARY.  315 

spot,  sinking  down  abruptly  like  a  rock  into  a  wild  fore- 
ground of  heath  and  forest,  with  a  magnificent  command 
of  distant  objects;  but  we  saw  nothing,  that  day,  like  the 
figure  on  the  top  of  the  hill. 

After  this,  I  lost  sight  of  her  for  a  long  time.  She  was 
called  suddenly  home  by  the  dangerous  illness  of  her 
mother,  who,  after  languishing  for  some  months,  died  ;  and 
Mary  went  to  live  with  a  sister  much  older  than  herself, 
and  richly  married,  in  a  manufacturing  town,  where  she 
languished  in  smoke,  confinement,  dependence,  and  dis- 
play (for  her  sister  was  a  match-making  lady,  a  manoeu- 
vrer),  for  about  a  twelvemonth.  She  then  left  her  house 
and  went  into  Wales — as  a  governess !  Imagine  the  as- 
tonishment caused  by  this  intelligence  amongst  us  all ;  for 
I  myself,  though  admiring  the  untaught  damsel  almost  as 
much  as  I  loved  her,  should  certainly  never  have  dreamed 
of  her  as  a  teacher.  However,  she  remained  in  the  rich 
baronet's  family  where  she  had  commenced  her  vocation. 
They  liked  her,  apparently ;  there  she  was  ;  and  again 
nothing  was  heard  of  her  for  many  months,  until,  happen- 
ing to  call  on  the  friends,  at  whose  house  I  had  originally 
met  her,  I  espied  her  fair,  blooming  face,  a  rose  amongst 
roses,  at  the  drawing-room  window,  and  instantly,  with 
the  speed  of  light,  was  met  and  embraced  by  her  at  the 
hall  door. 

There  was  not  the  slightest  perceptible  difference  in  her 
deportment.  She  still  bounded  like  a  fawn,  and  laughed 
and  clapped  her  hands  like  an  infant.  She  was  not  a  day 
older,  or  graver,  or  wiser,  since  we  parted.  Her  post  of 
tutoress  had,  at  least,  done  her  no  harm,  whatever  might 
have  been  the  case  with  her  pupils.  The  more  I  looked 
at  her,  the  more  I  wondered;  and  after  our  mutual  ex- 
pressions of  pleasure  had  a  little  subsided,  I  could  not  re- 
sist the  temptation  of  saying,  "  So  you  are  really  a  gov- 
erness?" "Yes."  "And  you  continue  in  the  same 
family  1 "  "  Yes."  "  And  you  like  your  post  ?  "  "  O  yes  ! 


316  GORDON    THE    GYPSY. 

yes !  "  "  But,  ray  dear  Mary,  what  could  induce  you  to  go  ?" 
"  Why,  they  wanted  a  governess ;  so  I  went."  "  But  what 
could  induce  them  to  keep  you  ?  "  The  perfect  gravity 
and  earnestness  with  which  this  question  was  put,  set  her 
laughing ;  and  the  laugh  was  echoed  back  from  a  group  at 
the  end  of  the  room,  which  I  had  not  before  noticed — an 
elegant  man,  in  the  prime  of  life,  showing  a  port-folio  of 
rare  prints  to  a  fine  girl  of  twelve,  and  a  rosy  boy  of  seven, 
evidently  his  children.  "  Why  did  they  keep  me  ?  Ask 
them,"  replied  Mary,  turning  towards  them  with  an  arch 
smile.  "  We  kept  her  to  teach  her  ourselves,"  said  the 
young  lady.  "  We  kept  her  to  play  cricket  with  us,"  said 
her  brother.  "  We  kept  her  to  marry,"  said  the  gentle- 
man, advancing  gayly  to  shake  hands  with  me.  "  She  was 
a  bad  governess  perhaps ;  but  she  is  an  excellent  wife — 
that  is  her  true  vocation."  And  so  it  is.  She  is,  indeed, 
an  excellent  wife,  and  assuredly  a  most  fortunate  one.  I 
never  saw  happiness  so  sparkling  or  so  glowing ;  never 
saw  such  devotion  to  a  bride,  or  such  fondness  for  a  step- 
mother, as  Sir.  W.  S.  and  his  lovely  children  show  to  the 
sweet  cousin  Mary. 


A     000  031  769     3 


_ 


